


The Captain's Fall

by Ewebie



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Drama, Other, Violence, angsty angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-18
Updated: 2014-09-13
Packaged: 2018-01-05 01:44:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 59,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1088126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ewebie/pseuds/Ewebie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU - reversing the roles from the fall; John falls, Sherlock is left.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part I: Angels Fall

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> Based on the AU idea from thiscaringsociopath...

Molly shook her head; tears streaming down her face. “Please, John, this isn’t right.”

John stopped pacing and glared. His jaw tightened as he stared at her and for a fraction of a second, his brows creased, and his eyes softened, glistening. But it dissolved in the blink of an eye, John’s spine straightened and his eyes went dark and hard. With a soft click, he slid the safety from the pistol and leveled it at Molly. “Do it. Do it now.”

 

~o~

 

Sherlock frowned as his phone vibrated on the table. He accepted the call and held it to his ear. “Yes?”

“Sherlock?”

His frown deepened. “Molly?”

“Sherlock… It’s… It’s Jim. He’s back.”

“Are you crying?”

There was a loud sniff from the other end. “Sherlock, I’m scared. He said he’d see me soon.”

“Molly, where are you?”

“I’m… I’m in my office.”

Sherlock’s eyes flit around the lab for a moment. “Stay where you are, I’m going to send John to collect you.”

“J-John?”

Fuck. He’d sent John away. John had only stormed out moments ago. He’d lied, he’d had sent him home, he’d told John that he didn’t care… John couldn’t get back fast enough, and Sherlock wasn’t bringing him back into this. There was a reason he’d sent he away. He shook himself. No. He was the only one in Bart’s now, so if Molly needed someone… “Just stay where you are, Molly. Lock the door and don’t let anyone in but me. I’ll be there shortly.”

There was a shaky sigh and a sniff from the other end of the line. “O-ok.”

 

~o~

 

Molly hung up the phone and frowned at the mess of papers on her desk. “There has to be a better way.”

“There’s not,” John insisted. “You know what he’s like. He won’t understand.”

She swiveled in her chair to face John again. “But, maybe Mycroft could…”

John shook his head. “Moriarty will kill him. You know that.” He gritted his teeth as if even saying it left a sour taste in his mouth. “Molly, pl-“ he cleared his throat. “Give me one other way? Any way! Any possible way that doesn’t end with him dead on _your_ slab?!” An oppressive silence settled in the room as they stared at each other. He dropped onto his haunches and looked up at her, desperation in his eyes. “Any way?”

Molly swallowed and shook her head.

“I,” he stood briskly and scrubbed his palm across his mouth. “I have to go. He doesn’t leave this room, yeah?”

Molly’s mouth drew into a tight line and she gave a resolute nod.

He gave her shoulder a squeeze. “I’m sorry.” And slipped out the door.

 

~o~

 

Sherlock reached the outer office door and a frown flickered across his face. The door should be closed and locked. He placed a hand on the door and eased it open glancing around before stepping cautiously inside. His eyes flit around the room, studying details that drew his eye, that were incongruent with the norm, that were important, that were wrong. The chair was out of place, tilted at an unusual angle; papers that had been spilt on the floor, hastily re-piled and set on the wrong side of the desk; Molly’s name badge half-hidden in the shadow of the coatrack. His eyes tightened. It was three long strides to the inner office door, and Sherlock covered the distance licentiously, shoving the door ajar and bursting into the inner office. “Molly?”

Sherlock dropped to one knee at Molly’s side where she lay crumpled the floor, a worried frown on his face. What was that smell? He knew that smell. Ether. He checked her pulse, checked her breathing, rested a hand on her shoulder and eased her onto her back. “Molly,” he whispered, his palm cupping her cheek. Her face scrunched and a small squeaking sound came from her lungs as she slowly regained consciousness. “Molly, what happened?” Sherlock demanded as her eyes opened.

A look of abject horror crossed Molly’s face, “Sherlock…”

The office door behind him slammed shut, the metallic clunk of the deadbolt adding to the echo. “No!” Sherlock shot to his feet and launched himself at the door, his shoulder thudding uselessly against the solid wood. Fear, confusion, and anger widened his eyes as he shot a glance at Molly. Less than a second of searching her face and he knew, he understood. “No!” he slammed a fist against the door. “John! John, you can’t do this!” For the briefest moment, he thought he may have heard the sound of steps outside the door, the brush of fingers on the lock, but then there was silence. “JOHN!”

Sherlock rounded on Molly, “What did you do?” he hissed angrily.

Molly swallowed and shrank away from him. “I-I’m sorry,” she stammered, holding an envelope out to him.

“What is this?” he snarled and snatched the paper from her.

“He…” The fear on her face melted into anguish. “He wanted me to give you… He left you… Sherlock, I’m so sorry.”

“He left me a… A note?”

 

~o~

 

John rested his forehead against the doorjamb. He could hear Sherlock yelling through the heavy, cinderblock wall. His mobile chimed in his pocket and he glanced almost absently at the screen.

 

_Rooftop. Confirmed contact._

 

He furrowed his brow and took a deep breath. In a brief flurry of movement, Watson pushed himself off the wall, sniffed and swiped the back of his hand across his mouth, straightened his shoulders and spine, and turned to stride out the door. He locked the outer office door for good measure, pocketing the keys and straightening his jacket as he made his way toward the bank of elevators.

He didn’t stop until his hand rested on the rooftop door, his phone beeping again.

 

_Three snipers: threats eliminated._

 

John clenched his jaw and threw the door open, stepping out into the overcast, yet bright daylight to the sound of the Bee-Gees music.

 

~o~

 

Sherlock stuffed the letter in his pocket and grabbed Molly by the shoulders. “Give me the keys, Molly,” he snapped, shaking her once for emphasis. “Now.”

“I-I don’t have them,” she said softly.

One corner of Sherlock’s mouth turned down in distaste. “There must be a spare set! Where are they?”

Molly shook her head. “I don’t have them. I-I gave them to John.”

Sherlock snarled and half shoved her away, turning to take in the room frantically. He took one stride to her desk and ripped the drawers open, rifling through them in chaotic fashion. He spun around, leaving the desk in disarray and snatched a box from one of the shelves, balancing it on his arm while he fished for something. Finding what he wanted, he dumped the box on the floor, metal tools clattering noisily.

“Sherlock, what are you doing?” Molly watched cautiously, remaining out of his destructive path.

“You don’t have the keys, I’ll make my own,” he barked, tugging his phone from his pocket. He punched the keys and held it to his ear as the other end rang out. “Damnit, John!” he hissed and dialed another contact. When the line connected, he launched into a breathless tirade. “Mycroft, don’t speak, just listen. John Watson has done something foolish. He’s going to engage Moriarty. Don’t ask how I know, just send someone. Send someone now. St. Bart’s. He… I think he’s heading for the roof.”

“Sherlock, where are you?” Mycroft’s voice was ever even and smooth.

“That doesn’t matter!” Sherlock barked. “He’s going to get himself killed!”

There was a sharp intake of breath from the other end of the line. “Alright. I’m on my way.”

“I don’t care what you do, Mycroft! Send that assassin in stilettos, or a sniper, or the entire branch of Five!” Sherlock was pacing rapidly, his free hand clenched in his hair. “If he… I will never forgive you, do you understand me?! If he gets himself hurt again, I’ll kill him myself!”

“Sherlock,” Mycroft’s tone held a hint of warning. “I’m sending some people now. I will… I’ll do what I can.”

Sherlock ended the call and stomped over to the door, pulling all the little items he’d collected from his pocket and squatted by the lock. He was muttering to himself as he pried open the paperclips and inserted the dissecting tool into the lock.

“Sherlock?” Molly asked.

“Not now, Molly.”

“S-Sherlock,” she called again.

The paperclip clamped between his lips, he craned his neck around, a dangerous look in his eyes. “What?” he hissed.

Molly chewed on her lower lip, holding the towel and bottle in shaking hands. “I’m… I’m supposed to make sure you don’t leave.”

Sherlock’s right brow arched and his head tilted ever so slightly. “I am leaving. As you’ve lost the element of surprise, I don’t see how you’ll overpower me now. I suggest you sit down and shut up and stay out of my way. So help me, if you interfere, I will make you suffer.”

Tears sprang to Molly’s eyes as she slowly lowered herself into the chair. “He… He wants you to… He just…” She couldn’t seem to finish the though and decided to give up and sit in silence.

It took the better part of five minutes for Sherlock to pick the lock and throw the door open. He snarled as he found the outer door locked as well. His skills were rusty, he hadn’t reason to keep up burglar talents of late, and locks were becoming more advanced. He gave the door a solid kick out of frustration before taking a calming breath, the emotion washing from his face, and he settled on the floor to open it the hard way. As he pushed open the second door, his mobile rang and he answered it while his canter reached a run. “Mycroft.”

“I have eyes across the street, Sherlock.”

“Where?”

“Market View, behind the ambulance station. Do hurry.”

Sherlock hung up again, breaking into a full sprint.

 

~o~

 

Captain John Watson did not hesitate as he strode across the roof toward the odd man in the suit.

_Ah ah ah ah, Stayin’ alive, Stayin’ Alive…_

“The Final Problem. ‘Staying Alive.’ So boring, isn't it? It's just... staying…” Moriarty looked up from the phone and a deep frown marred his face. “You aren’t Sherlock.”

Watson stopped a few feet from the edge and held himself in military attention. “No, Mr. Moriarty. I’m the one you tried to blow up.”

Moriarty rolled his eyes. “Ah the live-in pet. I don’t like ordinary people. Ordinary people are boring. You’re no more of a distraction than a wrinkle on my tie. Just a normal man. So pedestrian.”

“That I may be, but you too are just a man.”

Moriarty jumped up to his feet and glared at John. “And what would you know,” he hissed, hunching his shoulders and stomping towards John. “Just a grunt. Boring. Ordinary. Plastic. Dull. I should have blown you up and sent you back to him in pieces.”

“And I should have snapped your neck.”

Moriarty grinned madly. “Look at you: the soldier, the surgeon, the sacrificial lamb. Did Sherlock send you here to your death? Or did you just volunteer?”

“Sherlock,” John wet his lips. “Has been removed from the equation. You can’t have him,” he finished with a slight shake of his head.

Moriarty pressed into John’s personal space, meeting him eye-to-eye, the wide and wild expression on his face making it difficult for John to keep from recoiling. “And you think you can?” He studied John’s face. “Because we’re just alike, he and I. Except he is so self-righteous, so tedious; he’s on the side of the angels. And I have a much more entertaining master.” John moved faster than Moriarty could react, his arms and body a flurry of motion, grabbing the man by his lapels and spinning him out into open space. Moriarty grabbed at John’s forearms, “You can’t kill me, Doctor Watson; without me, Sherlock is nothing.”

“You’re insane,” John hissed.

“You’re just getting that now?”

John gave him a shake for good measure, “I should drop you off the side of this building.”

“To the joy of our audience below?” Moriarty snatched John’s collar and pulled, bringing them nose to nose and offsetting his balance enough that John was left with no choice but to spin them both back toward the center of the roof. “You would do that, would you? Kill a man in cold blood?”

“I’m already due to meet the devil for what I’ve done,” John spat out. “I won’t let you take one more innocent person with you before we meet in hell.”

Moriarty began to pace around John, circling in a wide arc. “And would you? Do you think you could stop me? Sherlock can’t stop me. Sherlock’s brother and all the king’s horses and all the king’s men can’t stop me.”

John continued to watch Moriarty from the corner of his eye as the man passed into his peripheral vision. “I imagine you can be stopped just like any other body. Disconnect the heart, disconnect the brain, deceased.”

“And what will happen to Sherlock? All of your friends? Do you think he’ll forgive you?” Moriarty came back into view on the far side. “When they’re all killed. Killed for your failure.”

John shook his head. “Your snipers are all gone.”

“All of them?” An incredulous smile broke over Moriarty’s face. “Would you bet on it, Doctor Watson? Would you bet your life? Would you bet Sherlock’s?”

John drew his pistol and leveled it at Moriarty’s head. “Happily.”

“And what kind of doctor would that make you?” He squared himself with Watson, a placid smile on his face. “Do no harm?

“I will keep them from harm and injustice,” Watson dead-panned, stepping closer to Moriarty.

“Respected by all humanity?” He held his arms out at his sides.

“But if I swerve from it or violate it, may the reverse be my life,” John purred, flipping the safety off with his thumb.

“So be it!” Moriarty hissed, lunging at the gun.

Captain John Watson pulled the trigger without a flinch. He was trained in hand to hand combat. He was trained to shoot. He was also trained to pinpoint the vital points of the body. And when Moriarty dropped, Doctor John Watson knew the man was dead. He clenched his jaw and swallowed, glancing at the body for a moment. He sucked in a deep breath through his nose and tucked the pistol into the back of his waistband. He blinked heavily and approached the edge of the roof, pulling his mobile from his pocket.

It was a single button dial and it connected immediately. “It’s done. He in place?”

“Yes.” The line disconnected immediately.

John looked down at the mobile, his mouth a wavering line of suppressed sadness. He opened a new text message.

_Look after them. Forgive me. JW_

He pressed send, and off to his right he saw a dark haired figure go through the motions of checking the text. From this high up, he couldn’t make out the individual fingers, but he knew the moment the message was received; the dark curls bobbed as the head jerked up to find his silhouette on the roof. John pressed his eyes closed, clenching his jaw and ignoring the ringing from his phone. He gave the slightest tilt of his head, and a loud cracking noise split through the city hum. Pain exploded from his left shoulder as the force caused him to lurch forward and his body pitched over the side of the building.

He heard his name, the sound cutting through to his heart. The last fleeting thought that flashed through his mind before impact was tuck-and-roll, Capt. Tuck-and-roll.

 

~o~

 

Sherlock pushed his body, running down the halls and up three flights of stairs at a dead sprint; demanding performance that should be beyond his capability. He hadn’t eaten more than the two slices of toast that John had forced into him in the past forty-eight hours, his body was in ketosis, the muscles burning and cramping only minutes into the exertion. It didn’t stop him. He was familiar with pain. He could tolerate it. He would push through it. For him.

He shoved through a small crowd of people to burst through the front entrance. He may have knocked down one of the nurses on her smoke break; he didn’t care. The blue light ambulance heading to the A&E nearly mowed him down; he didn’t care. Out of breath, his muscles screaming, his hands slammed onto the hood of the shiny black sedan parked behind the ambulance station.

His mouth pursed in an angry pout as he sucked a breath. “Where?!” he demanded of the suited gentleman standing at the door.

“Roof,” he whispered.

Sherlock slapped the hood with a palm as his mobile chimed. He tugged it from his pocket and breathed a single word, “John.”

_Look after them. Forgive me. JW_

Sherlock’s eyes flicked rapidly back and forth over each letter as his breath caught in his throat. His head swiveled on his neck, craning to see the roof, and as he caught sight of John’s silhouette at the edge of the building. He held a hand up to shield his eyes from the glare of the cloud-obscured sun. “John,” he breathed. The crashing report of rifle shot shattered what had become a frigid silence in Sherlock’s head and in that moment, he felt his heart stop.

A small puff of red, a cloud of crimson erupted from the silhouette as the body pitched forward, falling limply toward the ground. “JOHN!”

Sherlock’s newly found breath was lost to the impact with the pavement as two large, suited men tackled him to the ground.

“Down!”

“Shots fired!”

“Mr. Holmes!”

Sherlock lashed out, kicking, punching, biting, struggling to free himself from the protective arms. “No! John!” He scrambled free, throwing an elbow into a faceless jaw on his way to his feet. He launched himself into the road and rounded the ambulance hub at full sprint. A small crowd surrounded the body on the pavement, at least two doctors, two nurses, maybe one cop, and a handful of normal pedestrians. There was a bus, the 56, parked at the bus stop, hazards on. Two gawkers were at their cars, a man at a blue Renault and woman at grey Polo, parked against the ambulance center. A delivery biker, dreds in his hair, a red band on his head, zipped past, his messenger bag bulging. Red phone box, empty. Construction site, active. The fourth bench, broken arm. Gate, open. The body sprawled on the ground. Blinking hazards. Blue-lit ambulance. Man smoking an unfiltered. CCTV camera on the building. The body. The din of people. The shout of an order. The rattle of a gurney. The body. That body. John’s body. Oh God, the body. “John,” he gasped, pulling up short, his arms wind-milling around, his knuckles coming to rest against his teeth.

The back of his hand stuffed in his mouth did nothing to muffle the strangled cry that escaped around it. It took a moment for Sherlock to realize that the sound came from him, but by then his legs had caught up with his eyes and they gave out completely. His knees met the pavement with a smack and he managed to get a hand out before his head met the same fate. His brain seemed to stall, caught between the necessity to breath and vomit. He swallowed back the first wave of nausea, but then he saw the blood. The body. The blood. The body… “John.”

He stared. He shut his eyes and his mind continued to stare. The blood. The body. The awkward positioning of his limbs. His chest wasn’t moving. The body. He couldn’t turn it off. He couldn’t stop seeing it. He couldn’t stop running it. Sherlock shook his head and pushed back, sagging on his knees and heels, vision blurring in and out of focus. The body. John on the gurney. He made another sound, a cry maybe, a snarl, all muted in the thunderous discharge. A cloud of concrete. Then there were screams. He blinked, his brow furrowing as life sped up to real time.

A suit smothered him to the ground, “Stay down, Mr. Holmes!” The black sedan materialized beside them, and he was hauled to his feet, being passed along the rear bumper toward the passenger door. The grasp on his shoulder jerked to the side with a resounding blast, and Sherlock recoiled against the boot of the car as the suit collapsed to the ground, a large crimson stain spreading across the starched white shirt. Another set of hands, grabbing his shoulders, forcing his head down and into the back of the car. The heavy thud of a round rocked the side of the car and without waiting for the door to close fully, the sedan peeled away.

Sherlock pushed himself up on the backseat, hands on the rear dash, watching the hospital shrink into the distance. “John…”

“We have him, sir.”

Sherlock glanced over his shoulder at the thug of a man, breathing heavily and speaking into an earwig. “Where are we going?”

The man frowned. “Not far.” Sherlock opened his mouth as if to rebuke the dolt, but snapped his jaw shut, rolling his eyes instead. He sniffed loudly and tried to calm the chaos in his mind by mapping the streets as they drove. Coming down the Minories, the car pulled into an alley and stopped. The suit adjusted his jacket, “Please wait here for a moment, Mr. Holmes.”

Sherlock crossed his arms over his chest in response, watching the man through tight eyes. The suit exited the car and swept the area, returning to motion Sherlock out of the car and in through a door. Sherlock glanced around the well adorned room. “Mycroft?” he snapped.

In a manner of stealth that seemed only possessed of the Holmes men, Mycroft emerged from penumbra of another door. His mouth was a tight line as he exhaled sharply through his nose. “Sherlock,” he began, uncharacteristically staring at his interlaced fingers where they were clasped at his waist. He didn’t have the chance to finish the thought.

Sherlock struck him with a bare knuckled blow to the jaw. “You said you had eyes!” he bellowed. Mycroft stumbled slightly from the impact, but righted himself as the suit laid into Sherlock, pinning him to the wall with an arm twisted high behind his back. “You have to take me back!” Sherlock hissed.

Mycroft massaged his jaw with the tips of his fingers. “Let him go.”

Sherlock spun back to face his brother, his voice a panicked whine. “Mycroft, please!”

Mycroft gave the slightest nod. “Yes, of course.” He gave the slightest of agitated coughs. “My people are changing cars at the moment. One without bullet holes, perhaps?” Sherlock’s mouth tightened in moue of displeasure as he straightened his jacket, but he gave a quick nod. Mycroft’s phone vibrated and he answered without hesitation. The corners of his mouth pulled down into a horrifying frown and he shot a surreptitious glance at Sherlock. “I understand,” he murmured.

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed and his head cocked to the side. “What?”

The drive back to Bart’s was a silent affair. Sherlock pressed himself to remain still, but his knee bounced out of impatience and frustration. The sedan pulled quietly up to the delivery bay around back, and Sherlock raised a brow, but held his tongue. Mycroft led the way by only a half step, his shoes clicking on the tiled floor. He paused and tilt of his head directed Sherlock into a side room.

“Why are we down here, Mycroft?” Sherlock asked impatiently.

Mycroft sighed, “Sherlock. You must know…”

The mousy sob that stopped Mycroft drew Sherlock’s gaze. He hadn’t noticed her there. How did he not notice? Molly’s tear stained face and red nose did little to move Sherlock in contrast with the trembling words, “They did everything…”

Sherlock swallowed, but shook his head in confusion. “What?”

Molly bit her lip and glanced at Mycroft who gave a regretful nod. Molly loosed a shaky sigh and turned to the table behind her. With exquisite care, she folded back the sheet and shifted to the side.

Sherlock’s brow knit together as he took a step deeper into the room. He knew that profile. It was unmistakable. He blinked in disbelief. “But,” his breath left faster than he could contain it. The colour drained from his face as his eyes searched the table. There was no breath. No movement. No familiar flush to the cheeks. No expressive movement of the mouth. Dried blood collected at the left shoulder beneath the sheet, but the stain was steadfast, no expansion. It was… It wasn’t… Not anymore. The sharp noise that rose from his chest as he tried to catch air took him by surprise. He tried to straighten, tried to rise to his full height, tried to calm the muscles running wild across his face, tried to form a word. “J-John?” His mouth stopped moving, but his brain managed to churn out one more word. Sentiment. And everything went black.


	2. Part II: Clawing Your Way Back Up from Hell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU - reversing the roles from the fall; John falls, Sherlock is left... And John comes looking for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, I've employed an old story-telling technique for this part. All of the sequences in italics are flashbacks. They're stuck into the chapter at different points, but remain in their own chronological order. [The one in italics and bold is a letter]
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

Mycroft pressed open the door to his study. It had been a terribly long day, and the stack of reports and foreign newspapers piled on his desk for attention just emphasized the extended horror of it. He sighed and closed the door, crossing to his desk to add to the pile.

“Where’s Sherlock?”

People didn’t tend to surprise Mycroft Holmes. People, in fact, did not sneak up on Mycroft Holmes. And to date, no one had successfully broken into Mycroft’s home office. To say he was startled was an understatement, but beyond the slight jump at the voice, he composed his face rapidly. He would have to discuss security upgrades with Anthea. “Hello, Doctor Watson.”

John smiled from the lazy position he’d assumed in one of Mycroft’s wingback chairs. “Mycroft,” he gave a nod, his sun bleached hair dipping dangerously close to his eyes; eyes that were much darker than Mycroft remembered.

“I… didn’t realize you were back in the country,” Mycroft’s posture became infinitesimally more rigid. “When did you return?”

“When I had to chase him here,” John muttered.

“You look… Well. You’ve either tanned or you’re incredibly filthy,” Mycroft sneered.

John picked a piece of lint from his khaki jacket and let it fall casually to the floor. “Can’t it be both?” his smile was sarcastic, an angry glint in his grin. “But you didn’t answer my question. Where is Sherlock?”

“Not here.”

“I can see that,” John gestured to the expanse of the room. “That’s why I’m asking.”

The corners of Mycroft’s mouth pulled down into a scowl. “You’ve been gone a long time, John.”

“I’ve been gone a long time taking care of some rather pressing issues, wouldn’t you say?” When Mycroft remained silent, John shrugged and clapped his palms against his thighs, pushing to stand. “Sod this. If you’re going to be a twat about it, I’ll just find him myself.”

“I hear that’s a task you’ve found challenging of late.”

Fire flashed through Watson’s eyes and he clenched his fists hard by his sides. “Tread carefully, Mycroft,” he hissed. “I’ve sent you a dozen bodies, only half of which were warm.”

Mycroft’s eyes tightened. “And yet the one I sent you for remains elusive.”

John refused to be cowed. Even half a foot shorter than Mycroft, John was broader, his recent activity leading to a slight bulk in his shoulders and arms that was previously absent. And when he pulled his body into military attention, it added to his presence. “You know there’s only one reason I’d be here without him.”

Mycroft’s head tilted ever so slightly to the side. “Quite.”

John continued to glare through the silence that descended in the room. “So?”

Mycroft sighed heavily. “He’s not here.”

John’s jaw set into a hard angle. “Mycroft,” he warned.

“As in, not here in London.”

“Where?”

“Manchester.”

“What the bloody hell is he doing in Manchester?” John shouted.

Mycroft made a sour expression. “He was… He had a bit of trouble when you left.”

John’s eyes narrowed. “Trouble?”

“Nothing that hasn’t been dealt with before,” Mycroft said dismissively.

“And Manchester?” he hissed.

“To cure his boredom.”

“What is he doing in Manchester, Mycroft?”

Mycroft heaved a sigh. “I loaned him to the local police force. He’s working as a TDC for them at the moment.”

“TDC?!” John barked out a laugh. “That’s absurd.”

“He’s quite good at it, actually.”

John snorted. “Right, well, I’m off then.” He shook his head reaching for the door, “Bloody Manchester.”

“John?” Mycroft called after him. John glanced back over his shoulder. “You know he thinks you’re dead.”

John frowned and nodded. “I know.”

“I’m not sure he’ll be pleased to see you.”

John’s eyes darkened as he glared at Mycroft. “Well maybe he won’t see me." 

~o~

_Sherlock woke to crisp white sheets and a pounding headache. He pressed his fingertips gingerly to his temple, prodding at the fresh bruise. “John?” he called, pressing his eyes shut momentarily. “John?” His eyes shot open as he surveyed the room. This wasn’t Baker Street. He sniffed loudly and glanced around again. This was… Mycroft’s house?_

_As if the very thought of him were an unholy summons, Mycroft appeared in the doorway carrying a small tray. “Ah, you’re awake.”_

_Sherlock sat up too quickly and did his best impression of a stern glare. “Why am I here, Mycroft?”_

_“Yes, that,” Mycroft sighed, walking slowly into the room, placing the tea and toast on the dresser. “You collapsed in the morgue.”_

_“Collapsed?” Sherlock frowned. The morgue? What had he been doing… Oh. “And then the headache would be?”_

_Mycroft’s mouth pulled up at the corners in a terrible impression of a smile. “From landing on the tiles. You’ll forgive me; I wasn’t expecting it.”_

_“You couldn’t move fast enough to catch me if you tried,” Sherlock muttered._

_Mycroft’s smile grew into a grimace. “I didn’t take you for someone to swoon.”_

_Sherlock’s face twitched in and out of a snarl. “I didn’t swoon.”_

_“Of course not.”_

_Sherlock sighed. “What now?”_

_Mycroft’s expression softened ever so slightly as he sucked in a breath. “There’s the funeral.” He interested himself with a small bauble on the dresser top. “Harriet is in no state to make arrangements, so I’ve started that myself.”_

_Sherlock’s face fell. “I…”_

_“No need,” Mycroft broke in. “I’ve done things like this before.”_

_Sherlock nodded, his curls falling across his forehead._

_“Rest now,” Mycroft said softly and walked out of the room, closing the door behind him._

_Sherlock stared at the tea and toast for a moment before wrinkling his nose in disgust. He flopped back onto the pillows and pulled the blanket up around his shoulders, frowning as he still found it cold. He hunched onto his side and the anger on his face melted into a haunting sadness. He pressed his eyes shut to avoid the tears and curled into a tight little ball, folding his limbs around himself, doing his best to steady his breathing._

_When Mycroft returned a few hours later, it was dark outside, the tea and toast were cold and untouched, and Sherlock was asleep._

~o~

Sherlock frowned at the mess of people roaming the halls of the Manchester Special Branch. A quick glance told him all he needed to know and he rolled his eyes, “Dull.”

“Sorry, what?” the young detective looked up from the desk.

Sherlock frowned. “Come on, Teddy. Don’t you find the whole thing just tedious?”

He shook his head, “Not at all Mr. Holmes. I like paperwork.”

“You would,” Sherlock stood and started pacing the room. “Why am I here again?”

Teddy glanced up, his straight brown hair falling into his eyes. He swept it back and smiled. “You’re here, because Uncle Greg said you need a holiday from him. And you said you needed to work. And he said he needed a break from you.”

Sherlock huffed and crossed his arms. “Manchester is boring. Even your most complex criminal couldn’t be considered a mastermind. You hardly need me here.”

Teddy grinned, twin dimples appearing in his cheeks. “I don’t.”

Sherlock tried not to smile. There was no use in encouraging the child. Lestrade had said it was a favor, a point of education for his nephew. Mycroft had clearly just wanted him kept in England and in proper view of the NSY. That was unfair. He was well in control now. Only boredom would tip him over the edge. And they never let him hold a gun up here. He tamped down the urge to chew on his thumb and ran his fingers over the facial hair he’d grown… out of boredom.

There was a commotion out in the bullpen and Sherlock’s head shot up. Teddy glanced out into the mess and back at Sherlock. “Anything good?”

A smile spread over Sherlock’s face. “Apparently someone is robbing a bank and they’ve taken hostages. And your office has no negotiator.”

Teddy shook his head, “No. Mr. Holmes, no.”

“Oh, but, Teddy. I’m here to work. Aren’t you here to learn?”

Teddy heaved a sigh and stood to collect his coat. “Fine. But you have to wear a vest.”

Sherlock positively grinned. “Obviously.”

~o~ 

_At first he thought he might have botched the landing as he woke in agony. But as his surroundings sharpened, the light came into focus, and the screaming pain found a familiar home in his left shoulder. But it wasn’t the dull throb he’d grown accustomed to, the daily pins and needles that haunted his limb. No, this was the excruciating stab that had started it all, back to bring wrath and ruin all over again. His body nearly convulsed with the pain and he tried to double over. He gritted his teeth, but couldn’t contain the bark of agony that exploded from his chest._

_“John?”_

_He sucked in a sharp breath and tried to open his eyes again._

_“John, try to lie still.”_

_He nodded. He nodded again, not trusting his voice._

_“I’m going to give you something for the pain.”_

_He wet his lips then clenched his jaw, the warm rush of morphine making him feel heavy, warm, and nauseated at once. The breath he was holding escaped in a groan as the pain dulled enough for him to regain control of his brain. “What happened?” he ground out._

_Mycroft stepped forward, occupying the right side of his visual field. “Sniper, Doctor Watson,” he said matter-of-factly._

_Molly appeared on his left. “It was a clean through-and-through, John. It’s been cleaned and closed already.”_

_“The sniper?” John asked through gritted teeth._

_“Gone,” Mycroft purred._

_“Any idea who?”_

_Mycroft frowned deeply. “No. We are looking into it at present.”_

_“And…?”_

_Molly pressed her mouth into a thin line. “Yes.”_

_“He believes it?” John’s forehead creased._

_Molly nodded. “Yes.”_

_John swallowed. “Good. Get me out of here.”_

~o~

John stashed his rucksack in the back of the Land Rover. Mycroft had promised that the car was clean of any government smells, so John had carefully removed the two bugs, spare tracker, and lowjack that MI 5 had clearly forgotten they’d installed before he headed out. Mycroft wasn’t going to be pleased, but once out of London, John would be sure to lose the tail as well. He didn’t need the government to watch what he was about to do. Nor did he need anyone else to wonder what the government was doing and find him in the process.

It was a relatively short drive to Manchester, all things considered. And the change of scenery had been good for John’s soul, or what was left of it. He shook his hair loose so the shag fell over his eyes and propped the aviators up onto his forehead as he walked into the hotel. It was a budget affair, but a high rise on the South side of town. It had everything he was looking for, access, a transient neighborhood, local hospital, main road into the city and a spit from the major rail stops. It didn’t need to be fancy; he wouldn’t be here long. It only required a certain amount of discretion and anonymity.

It was an easy five minutes of flirting with the young woman at the reception desk to secure a northern facing room for the week, off the books, cash up front. He gave her a wink as he walked away, key in hand. It was so much easier to do that in English. He moved the car to a side street, shouldered his rucksack, and threw a messy salute to the two gentlemen following him, probably MI 5 in full black and whites, on his way back into the hotel.

First day back in Manchester and the goal was to get the lay of the land, sort out his vantage points, make a friend or two. He returned to the room and changed clothes. Blending was going to be key and the better part of the work force was already at their desk jobs. He slipped into a pair of well worn jeans and a collared shirt. The corner of his mouth twitched as he looked at his jacket. He pulled it inside out before donning it, checked the clip in his pistol and tucked it into his waistband. Aviators back on, he left through the front door of the hotel. He winked at the suits on his way past, heading toward the university campus on foot. He knew they were behind him, knew they were following, knew they had to be on foot through the pedestrian areas. So he crammed his hands in his pockets and walked into the central humanities building. And then he disappeared. 

~o~

**_My dear Sherlock,_ **

**_I am not gone, even dead. But things must change, become clean, reshuffle the deck. I cannot ask you more. Molly will help. She has always knows how to care for you fully. In that, will you promise: be good, give back kindly, continue to be brilliant you, and then be too especially safe. Do not take to heart, care not, be of strength to them. I am sorry, Sherlock. Please miss me._ **

**_Thank you,_ **

**_RMC Captain John H. Watson_ **

~o~

Teddy crossed his arms and leaned back against the take-away shop front. He hadn’t been working with Sherlock Holmes very long, but he’d heard the stories from his uncle and he considered himself a relatively quick learner. He was better off staying out of the way when Sherlock got an idea in his head. How Sherlock managed to convince the boss to let him step in as a negotiator was a mystery, but watching him don the attire was a sight he recognized as hilarious enough to warrant pictures to his uncle.

Sherlock turned his cap around backwards. He wrinkled his nose for a moment, it was uncomfortable, cliché, but it suited the part. It looked correct with his flack-jacket and labeled bulletproof vest. He listened to the chatter of the ATB in his left ear as he brought the mobile up to his right. “Patch me through,” he said firmly.

The phone actually rang before being answered. Lazy, his mind churned out. Nervous. Power play. The line connected and Sherlock listened carefully, not to the introduction, but the background noises. There were people, definitely hostages, more than five, both genders, at least one child. The sound of a gun, large, multiple moving parts, MP-5? No, rougher. One, two, at least three men with steel-toed work boots. They came somehow prepared. The sound of someone adjusting their grip, their grip on the phone, sweating. Nervous. A cleared throat. “I want to know who I talking to.”

Sherlock smiled, it was time to chat. “This is TDC Holmes of the Manchester Special Branch, I was told you wanted to speak with me.”

“Yeah, yeah a fucking do. Do you have any idea how fucking hot it is in here?”

Sherlock blinked heavily. “I imagine it’s quite warm. Standard procedure. It had to be done.”

“Well turn the heat the fuck off!”

“Absolutely, absolutely.” He loosely covered the receiver with his hand for show only. “Will someone turn the heating off?! No. No! Just turn it off!” he yelled at no one in particular. He brought the phone back to his ear. “They’ll get it turned off, it just takes a minute for the heat to dissipate. I apologize. They have to do that until I’m here…” he let the silence drag out for a moment. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”

There was a long pause. “I… What’s it matter to you?”

“Well I want to know what I should call you. You don’t need to give me your full name or anything, just, something to call you. Joe? Bob? Phillip?”

“Terence.”

“Ok, alright,” Sherlock nodded. “Terence. Now, Terence. Tell me, what is it I can do for you?”

There was a shuffle, an exchange on the other end, a conference and Terence came back. “Ok. We… We want a bus. Yeah, a bus out front and a plane, a private jet, up on the runway, and a pilot to fly wherever we ask.”

Sherlock took the precaution of repeating that back, “A bus to the airport, a jet and a pilot. Is there anything else?”

“No, those things… And… And no funny business. And no cops on the way.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. He was done playing. His face smoothed into the relaxed seriousness of his normal façade. “Let me ask you this, Jonas McDale of Upper Glouster Street. When you’re negotiating an escape plan, do you know that you must be more specific than just a bus and a jet? Numbers would do. How many people, amount of petrol necessary would be better, and no one can take off from an airport this day in age without a filed flight plan. You’d never want a bus driving down the streets of Manchester without a police escort or you’ll never reach the airport. More specifically, robbing a bank, that particular bank was a terrible decision. You’d have been better clearing out your own account than getting involved with that gang of anti-union delinquents you have holding the guns. Now do me a favor, turn to your left, and tell that moron Carl that if he doesn’t put his gun down, I’ll let the ATB sniper shoot him where he stands. And no, that is not a local kid with a laser pointer making that dot on his forehead.”

Silence extended over the line.

“Whatever you think about it, Jonas, doesn’t matter. Just do it. I’ve the ATB chattering away in my other ear and they’re a bunch of hopped up cowboys. If I don’t give them something to do other than standing down in the next minute or two, they’re liable to haul off and shoot you anyway.” Sherlock hung up the phone and tossed it to the nearest officer. “Give them ten seconds and they’ll be out.”

Sherlock raised a brow and tried to suppress his grin when he caught Teddy’s eye. “Shall I count it down, TDC Holmes?”

“Unnecessary, Teddy. It’s five seconds left at this point anyway.” Sure enough, unarmed with hands in the air, the robbers filed out of the bank and surrendered to the local constabulary.

“Learn anything today, Teddy?” Sherlock asked as they settled in the car.

“Only that the paperwork for this will be a new and painful experience, and that Uncle Greg thinks you should probably go back to shaving.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Do not listen to your Uncle. He is a pompous git.”

“Funny,” Teddy chuckled. “He says the same about you.”

 

John’s brow was deeply creased, his jaw tight as he watched. He wasn’t ready. He’d only wanted to lay out the city again. Find the corners, the perches, the rats. He’d stopped for the spectacle, the crowd behind police cordon, the bobbies and the stand-off. He wasn’t ready to see Sherlock in the throws of brilliance. He wasn’t ready to see Sherlock. At first, it’d been an act, clearly and plainly; then Sherlock had dissolved into the deductions that John had been so fond of. The facial hair though… What was it? A mustache and a goatee? It would clearly have to go. He looked like one of his homeless army.

John pursed his lips and shook his head. What was the world coming to? He sniffed and cleared his throat, sliding his sunglasses back up in place with his index finger. Not ready. How could he have missed that? He stuffed his hands back into his pockets and vanished into the crowd.

~o~

_Lestrade sighed heavily and shook his hands free from coat. “Damnit, Sherlock,” he muttered, squatting to put himself on eyelevel with the world’s most infuriating man._

_“S’the thing, Grover.” Sherlock waved an uncoordinated hand aimlessly at the nearby wall. “Wh-In the real life, the things.” He blinked blearily and squinted at Lestrade as if he were surprised to see him. “I thought you were in Cornwall.”_

_Lestrade rubbed his forehead roughly. “Sherlock,” he dropped his hand onto Sherlock’s grubby, hoodie encased shoulder. “C’mon, let’s get you a shower and a cup of coffee.” Sherlock rolled his eyes, but stood as Lestrade helped him to his feet and wrapped a blanket around his shoulders. His face went a ghostly pale and he teetered for a moment. “If you’re going to be sick, please do it now. I’ll throw you out of the moving car if you puke on my interior again.”_

_Sherlock made a face then frowned. “I…” His brow creased and he pitched to the side, retching onto the pavement._

_Lestrade waited for him to finish before holding him upright against the wall with a hand pressed firmly to his chest. “Sherlock, when’s the last time you took a hit?”_

_Sherlock shook his head before dropping his chin shamefully against his chest. “It’s not… I don’t…” he mumbled. “Who leaves notes? Why? Why do that?” He raised his eyes, the dark circles beneath standing out against the pallor of his skin. “Everything hurts.”_

_Lestrade heaved a sigh and wrapped an arm under the lithe man’s shoulders. “I know, Sherlock. I know.”_

~o~

Sherlock leaned back in the chair and repeatedly tossed the ball into the air, spinning it from his fingertips to catch it again in the opposite palm. “Bored,” he said flatly. Tossed it. Tossed it again, flicking his wrist and fingers to make the ball spin. “Bored,” he repeated loudly.

“Heard you the first time, Mr. Holmes,” Teddy murmured without looking up from his paperwork.

“Well then do something about it!” Sherlock bounced the ball off the ceiling.

Teddy looked up, exhaustion written in his brown eyes. “I’m not going to give up my career and become some sort of serial murderer just so you’re no longer bored.”

Sherlock huffed. “Dull.”

“Was the bank robbery yesterday not enough?”

“That was yesterday,” Sherlock whined.

Teddy gave him an indulgent smile, “Now I see what Uncle Greg means.”

“No you don’t,” Sherlock said flatly.

“There have to be hundreds of unsolved cases in the file room,” Teddy offered. “Why don’t you pick one? They’ll never be looked after otherwise.”

Sherlock stared at him, blinking slowly. “An unsolved one?”

Teddy nodded. “Yes.”

“A… A cold case?”

Teddy smiled. “Yup.”

Sherlock threw his arms up and slapped them onto his thighs. “Fine.” He pushed to his feet. “Where do I find one of these cases?”

 

John’s attire was more militant when he left his makeshift home. And he didn’t leave by the front door this time. Something from the previous day left him unsettled. The ease with which he shook Mycroft’s men weren’t it. He’d found them again at the robbery, but not the other way around. No, it was something else. He closed his eyes and ran through the crowd again. Somewhere, someone was out of place. Someone looking to hide in plain sight. Someone definitely military. Someone that shouldn’t have been there. The faces seemed to fly past him, one after the other. Until he stopped… Settling on a man that was too clean cut to be in construction. The clothes were right, but he stood too tall, too straight. His face too smooth, his hair crisp and freshly trimmed with no tan line on the back of his neck. Expensive watch on his wrist. Clean hands. John frowned. That man didn’t belong there. But at no time was that man looking for John, he’d spent the time watching Sherlock.

New plan for the day: find Sherlock. More importantly, find the ghost on his tail and deal with him. Someone tailing Sherlock was someone John needed to have a chat with. He checked the Land Rover for new trackers before pulling out into the city streets.

John was glad to have made it outside the Manchester office before Sherlock left in one of the station cars. As it stood, he still had no idea where the man was going except that it took him to the outskirts of the ring road. It was an older industrial area, with a spattering of warehouses and run down buildings, the desolation making it a challenge to follow in the Land Rover without being seen; a challenge, but not impossible.

When Sherlock parked in front of what looked like an abandoned hotel, John frowned. Don’t go in that building, Sherlock, he thought. Do not. I swear to God if you go inside, I’m going to have to kill you. He actually swore out loud when Sherlock did just that. He produced a key from his pocket and unlocked the barred gate, the effect of his Belstaff billowing out to the side as he swanned through the front door made John just a touch nostalgic in spite of the ire rising at the back of his throat.

Debating for a few moments, John settled on continuing to drive past, doubling back behind the buildings and parking in the old car lot by the fire doors. Picking a high post in the neighboring building, John settled in to wait and watch. His wait was horrifically short, however. His mark was there… With friends, two friends. He frowned. They’d shed any pretense of construction work, dressed in tactical gear, John could count at least two pistols each and the Kevlar vests were stiff against their chests. They weren’t there to watch; it was a hit squad, plain and simple. And Sherlock was the only person in the building.

He waited, fingers itching, until all three had passed in through the fire door. Then Captain John Watson decided he’d have to join the party.

The inside of the hotel gave John the creeps. Most of the windows were boarded up or blacked out, leading to spotty patches of light that only revealed halfway decorated walls and empty boxes, bare wiring and unfinished ceilings. How the PD had kept this building from becoming completely derelict was beyond him.

John had his pistol drawn, a silencer in place as he edged up the stairs. He’d heard them a moment ago, clumsy boots on a creaky hardwood up on the second floor. He was playing catch up, stalking them in an urban jungle. He heard them again, up on the third floor, he glanced up at the ceiling, debating returning to the same stairwell. And it was when he was distracted that the man struck.

John let out a grunt as the man’s forearm crashed down across his elbows, his gun clattering to the floor. John ducked the kick that followed, popping up under the man’s guard with a solid uppercut. The man rushed him, tackling him to the ground and driving a shoulder into John’s gut. John rolled over his own shoulder, coming up onto his knee. Moving on instinct rather than active thought, John drew his knife as the man came at him again.

Sherlock squatted down on his haunches, the pattern on the floor catching his undivided attention for a few moments. He turned his head this way and that, taking in the details that another human would dismiss. He was engrossed enough that the thud from the floor above had him jumping to his feet. He eyed the ceiling or a moment, considering the sound and the soft, slow footfalls that were now present. The corner of his mouth pulled up into a half smile and he spun toward the stairs.

 

John swiped a hand across the back of his mouth and sniffed, glaring at the body on the floor in front of him. He shifted his shoulders, cracking his neck to the side. His jaw was smarting, as was his shoulder. And in his defense, the guy had outright attacked John, he’d only been acting on instinct. But in the past few months it had become infinitely more difficult to ambush John Watson. He stooped, cleaning the blade of his knife on the dead man’s jacket before tucking it back into the sheath. The one thing he was clear on: dead man, not the Colonel.

He stiffened, hearing footsteps on the stairs. Fuck, he’d forgotten the other two, and as much as he’d tried to keep that scuffle quiet, they were bound to have heard something. John backed toward the next room, keeping an eye on the door to the stairwell. He snuck into the next room and eased the door shut in his wake. His eyes swept the room, something of a ballroom? Conference room? Permanent bar along one wall. Scattered collapsed tables and chairs, boxes, like a ghost wedding due for assembly.

A floorboard creaked, echoing through the space from the door opposite his entrance. John ducked behind the end of the bar for cover and held his breath. The door eased open, and for a moment, John thought he heard the ruffle of fabric. Then he heard a very familiar huff of agitation. John groaned silently, dropping his forehead against the bar with annoyance. No, Sherlock, not here. Go back the other way.

Voices, the collision of metal against concrete, drifting from the stairwell John had only recently escaped. John heard the hum of curiosity, of pleasure maybe, that Sherlock gave when he’d found something intriguing. No. No, no, Sherlock, please. But the curiosity was never something John could stay in that irritating man. Sherlock was crossing the room to investigate. Maybe it was a bad idea. Ok, a terrible idea. But John had to stop him. With a cuss and a grimace, he leapt from his cover.

John launched himself onto Sherlock, slamming them both into the wall behind the bar with a thud before they tumbled to the ground. In the back of his mind, John was secretly pleased he’d managed to catch Sherlock off guard, but the pleasure was rather short lived. Sherlock blindly threw an elbow, catching John on the side of the head and knocking him into the wall as Sherlock scrambled up onto his hands and knees. John recovered faster than Sherlock, fastening a hand on Sherlock’s ankle and pulling his knee out from under him. Sherlock hit the ground and rolled onto his back, bringing his arms up to defend himself. John surged forward, catching Sherlock’s wrist and locking pinning them over his head. He clamped his free hand firmly over Sherlock’s mouth and glaring at him. “Shut up, Sherlock,” he hissed. “Shut up.”

Sherlock’s eyes went wide as he froze, his body going completely still beneath John’s. John set his jaw, a slight twitch in muscle around his eyes constituted a threat and nudge and he slowly released Sherlock’s wrists. When Sherlock remained stationary on the floor, blinking, staring noiselessly at him, he carefully removed his hand from Sherlock’s mouth, raising a finger to his lips in demand of continued silence.

“John?” Sherlock breathed, his eyes flicking over every feature he could find. He propped himself up on his elbow, reaching a hand towards John’s face as though he couldn’t believe until he touched him.

Muffled voices and footfalls on the stairs had John’s head snapping up. He shifted off of Sherlock and crouched with a good view of the door, silenced pistol at the ready. He waved Sherlock to the space behind his right shoulder.

“Colonel said he was here somewhere.”

“Are we really going to search this whole bloody dump?”

Sherlock scrambled into a squat behind John. John? His fingertips brushed over his shoulder blade. Real. Alive?

The door was flung open and two men, heavily suited, entered. While their dress and equipment looked military, their movements were lazy and unstealthy. John frowned, carefully tracking their progress with his gun, pivoting silently in the dark.

“There’s no one here. This is a waste of our time.”

A radio on one of their belts crackled. “Report?”

The man sighed and pulled the small walkie-talkie from his waistband. “Second floor. Clear.”

The voice on the radio came back quickly. “Southwest corner.”

John’s shoulders stiffened as both men turned toward their cover. He rapidly searched the room with his eyes: no surveillance equipment, no cameras, two doors, three windows – blacked out, book shelves on the wall – empty, bar – current cover, fire extinguishers, boxes – possibly empty, nearest exit – behind him. Then how…? Both men drew their sidearms as they moved closer to the bar. “Fuck,” he hissed under his breath, easing backwards, deeper into the cover of the heavy wood.

One of the men brushed off of a stack of boxes, sending the cardboard clattering to the floor. Both men jumped and turned, staring at the empty mess. One of them chuckled nervously, “No, no one here.”

John spared his right hand for a moment, sweeping Sherlock behind him, well out of the line of soon to be fire. “Vatican Cameos,” he breathed, returning both hands to the grip of his pistol. With their attention still off to the side, John rose to his feet and squeezed off four rapid shots. Left femur. Right shoulder. Right femur. Right shoulder. Both men dropped to the ground in a duet of shouts. John crossed he room, his aim flicking between the two as he came close enough to take their firearms, tucking one into his holster and the other in the waistband of his pants.

He didn’t recognize either man. They were clearly local hires, but well outfitted. “Where’s the Colonel?” he demanded, his voice a dangerous whisper.

The radio clipped in. “Two down. Neutralized?”

John frowned. How…?

He may have heard the tinkle of glass as the small hole created a starburst in the window, but he saw the man on the right slump into a boneless pile and could taste the blood in the air. The loud crack that followed with a concussive blast was well heard and familiar. He knew that rifle. He’d been on the receiving end of one of those shots and the sound alone made his shoulder ache. And to make that shot, over that distance, with no line of sight… It only took a moment for John’s mind to put it together and he swore again, vaulting the bar and flattening Sherlock to the ground.

Sherlock let out a small oof as John’s body covered his again, his right arm wrapping around Sherlock’s head and pressing it down into the shelter of John’s chest. He flinched as a second shot punched through the wall and found a home in the second goon.

“Fuck,” John swore. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” He pressed his eyes shut for a moment, racking his brain. “Oh!” he popped up to crouch, just clearing the line of the bar and put a bullet into each of the fire extinguishers, the compressed carbon dioxide spilling into the room. He reached down and grabbed Sherlock by the collar of his coat and dragged him up, nearly flinging him toward the nearest door. “Go! Go, go, go!”

Sherlock lurched out the door, through the next room, and into the stairwell, catching himself against the wall down the first quarter flight. His brow furrowed as John burst through the door after him. “John?”

John checked the stairwell for others before taking the steps two at a time, grabbing Sherlock’s coat again in passing, and dragging him in his wake. John released Sherlock’s clothing when he felt sure the man was going to keep following and burst out of the emergency door into the car park. The sun was momentarily blinding, but it didn’t slow John’s stride as he sprinted the open space to the Land Rover. “Get in!”

“John?” Sherlock hesitated, his hand on the passenger door.

Another crack echoed off of the concrete and John’s face went dark. “Get the fuck in the car!”

Sherlock swallowed and acquiesced, his door not even fully closed before John accelerated, peeling out of the lot and down the abandoned street. John could hear the shot even over the roar of the engine. His left hand caught against the back of Sherlock’s neck as he forced his head down below the level of the dash. He swore loudly, clamping his right hand on the wheel and ducking himself as one of the back windows shattered. “Stay down.”

~o~

_Watson crossed his arms over his chest, the olive tee-shirt stretching to accommodate the tension in his shoulders. He scowled. “And what’s been done so far?” His face was weathered, tanned, tired, and he was in dire need of a shave, but it did nothing to soften the glare he was giving the uniforms around the room._

_“Sir, there’s nothing to be done.”_

_The left corner of Watson’s mouth quirked in what could have been the start of a smile if not for the piercing darkness in his eyes. “Nothing?”_

_The officer gestured at the papers plastering the wall. “We don’t have the intel for this. There’s no way the General can authorize this kind of incursion.”_

_Watson cleared his throat and gave a curt nod._

_“You’ll just have to give us some more time.”_

_“Right,” he cocked a brow at man seated in the corner. “Murray?”_

_The man stood, gave Watson a knowing grin, and collected his gear, pushing out of the tent flap without a word. Watson gave a nod to the room and turned to follow._

_“Wait, where do you think you’re going?”_

_Even though there was a ghost of a smile on his face, Watson’s voice was even, cold, and deadly. “I’m going to take care of our problem, and that,” he pointed to the still moving tent flap, “That was one of my best men. He’s off in the hills now, yeah? If you even try to stop me, he’ll do the job for me, then come back and do you.” He shouldered his rucksack. “So you,” he tapped the man in the chest. “Feel free to panic. I’ll be back when I’m done.” Watson gave him a wink and walked out into the night._

~o~

John stomped into the room, stripping his jacket and tossing it onto the bed. He sighed heavily and swiped the back of his hand across his forehead. “Look,” he started, taking in a deep breath. He turned to face Sherlock, ready to tell him, ready to explain. And found himself slammed into the wall.

Sherlock grabbed the front of John’s shirt and shoved him backwards, running them both into the divider. In a moment of blind rage, he captured John’s right wrist, pinning it to the wall, and pressed his forearm across John’s throat. John’s face went instantly red as he gritted his teeth and tried to leverage some of the pressure from his airway. “Sh-Sherlock,” he squeaked.

“What?” Sherlock barked. “You were dead! I saw you! I saw you die!”

“Not dead,” John grunted.

“You were! You are!”

“Can’t breathe.”

“No! You…” Sherlock’s eyes were lit and seething even as his face went pale. “What? Why?!”

John coughed. “You. Know. Why.” He ground out, his face turning a slight shade of purple.

“How?! How did you do it?! I… I saw you!”

John made another squeak and winced, pressing his eyes shut. “Can’t breathe…”

“How?!”

“Sh-Sher…” John tapped at Sherlock’s arm with his free hand.

Sherlock’s whole body quaked with anger and shock, but the urgent swatting seemed to catch his attention. He blinked, suddenly recognizing where his arm was. He released John, throwing his arms up and backing away in horror.

John collapsed to his hands and knees, sputtering, wheezing, gasping and coughing for a time. He retched once, but seemed to stifle the full impulse to vomit. Breathing heavily, he managed find a position sitting on the floor, his back supported by the wall, that didn’t hurt too much. “Jesus, Sherlock,” his voice rasped. “What the ever-loving fuck.” He succumbed to another round of coughing as Sherlock dropped to his knees a safe distance away.

“You were dead,” Sherlock whispered, staring at John.

John coughed and wet his lips. “Christ, Sherlock,” he ran his fingers over the bruises forming across his throat. “That’s why I left you a god dammed note.”


	3. Part III: Perdition and Penance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU - reversing the roles from the fall; John falls, Sherlock is left. John comes looking for him.... And finds him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the long hiatus (though... I suppose we are used to long hiatuses... *cringes*). Sometimes real life and other distractions take priority. I write in mad flashes and then regroup. So here's another chapter (it's a bit shorter than the other two, but it moves things forward a bit more). I haven't given up on my other WIPs either... They are coming along. I hope not to leave this one hanging for so long again. 
> 
> As with the last chapter: all of the sequences in italics are flashbacks. They're stuck into the chapter at different points, but remain in their own chronological order. [The one in italics and bold is a letter]
> 
> Enjoy!

John pushed himself to standing, and propped himself up on the wall with a cough and a wince. “Don’t tell me you didn’t read the note.”

Sherlock glared up at him from the floor. “Of course I read the bloody note.”

A look of exasperation crossed his face as he eyed Sherlock. “Clearly you didn’t. It doesn’t matter. Look, we should...”

“Of course it matters!” Sherlock barked. “Tell me how!”

John coughed and cleared his throat. “Can I tell you in the car? We should get back to London.”

“Now,” Sherlock growled.

John heaved a sigh and shook his head absently. “Molly Hooper…”

“Yes, yes. Molly called me, distracted me, you locked me in the office. She was supposed to use chloroform to render me unconscious. John, did you really think she’d go through with that?”

“It didn’t matter if she did or not. Those doors weren’t exactly child’s play to open without the keys.”

“The roof, John. What happened on the roof?”

“I killed him,” John told him flatly.

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

“One hundred percent?”

John let out a morbid chuckle. “Sherlock, I know when I’ve shot a man dead at pointblank range.”

Sherlock’s face paled slightly. “But then, you jumped.”

“Sort of.”

Sherlock shook his head. “No, no. That. That doesn’t make sense. Why? If I’m stuck in the room, why jump? How do you make sure I’m standing on the other side of the ambulance bay? How do you…”

“Mycroft,” John said softly.

“Mycroft,” Sherlock echoed, closing his eyes.

John swallowed and frowned. “It wasn’t just Moriarty, Sherlock. There were others. More. And we weren’t, we couldn’t be sure we had all of them. We still don’t.”

“And you couldn’t ask me?”

“Of course not!” John shouted. “You would have done something idiotic!”

“You did something idiotic!” Sherlock hissed back.

“I did it to protect you!”

“And what if something had gone wrong?!”

“Something always goes wrong, Sherlock.”

“You had yourself shot off a roof? That. John, that makes no sense. Why would you?”

“Getting shot was not part of the plan,” John groaned in exasperation.

“So,” Sherlock’s brain started kicking into high gear. “You meant for Molly to leave me intact. You wanted me to reach the ambulance bay. You wanted me to see you fall. You needed me convinced you’d jumped yourself. Mycroft directed me. Molly staged the lay out in the morgue. But you managed to get shot off the roof by some anonymous sniper? John, that’s a ridiculous plan.”

John gave a weak smile. “It wasn’t ridiculous. I’m just glad the sniper didn’t have better aim.”

Sherlock slammed his fist into the carpeted floor. “You should have told me!” he shouted.

“I did!” John insisted. “I left you a note!”

“Yes, notes, ‘cause that’s what people do, isn’t it?”

“You didn’t read it,” John muttered.

“I read it!” His eyes narrowed as he reread the short dispatch in his head. It had been penned by John, his handwriting a messy combination of doctor’s scrawl and urgency; odd rhythm; emotionally loaded undertone; one large grammatical error; signature out of character… Oh. Oh God. How? “John,” he breathed. How had he missed it? “John!” he hissed, lurching to his feet. John threw his hands up and flinched, a shout of surprise escaping him as Sherlock slammed into him again.

John sucked in a breath, his whole face drawn back in a wince, and cracked one eye. He opened his other eye and blinked, staring down at the mess of Sherlock’s curls where the man’s face was pressed into John’s abdomen. John’s brow furrowed as he slowly brought his hands down onto Sherlock’s shoulders. Was he…? Sherlock was hugging him? John carded his fingers through Sherlock’s hair as the tension slowly left his body.

Sherlock sniffed loudly and cleared his throat; pressing his mouth into a firm line and tilting his head back to get a look at John’s face. “I didn’t read it,” he muttered. “John, I’m… I...” John’s look of surprise stretched into a grin and he couldn’t keep the chuckle from escaping. Sherlock cocked his head in consternation, a hesitant smile slowly forming.

Somehow it made John laugh harder, and in a moment, Captain John Watson was giggling like a child. “Sherlock,” he managed to squeak out between snickers.

“What?”

“Please god,” John laughed. “Tell me you’re going to shave that thing off your face.”

 

~o~

 

**_~~My dear~~ _ ** **_Sherlock,_ **

****

**_~~I am~~ _ ** **_not ~~gone, even~~ dead. ~~But things~~ must ~~change, become~~ clean, ~~reshuffle the~~ deck. ~~I cannot~~ ask ~~you more~~. Molly ~~will help~~. She ~~has always~~ knows ~~how to~~ care ~~for~~ ~~you~~ fully. ~~In that~~ , will ~~you promise~~ : be ~~good, give~~ back ~~kindly, continue~~ to ~~be brilliant~~ you ~~, and then~~ be ~~too especially~~ safe. ~~Do not~~ take ~~to heart~~ , care ~~not, be~~ of ~~strength to~~ them. ~~I am~~ sorry, ~~Sherlock. Please~~ miss ~~me~~._ **

****

**_~~Thank~~ _ ** **_you,_ **

**_~~RMC Captain~~ John ~~H. Watson~~ _ **

 

~o~

 

Lestrade frowned. “What do you mean he didn’t come back?”

“He was bored. I suggested he look into one of the cold cases. But that was hours ago.” There was a pause as Teddy rallied his courage. “I was just wondering if this was normal for him, or…”

“Or if you should be worried.” Lestrade finished for him.

“Yeah… Pretty much.”

Lestrade pressed his eyes shut and rubbed a non-specific spot on his forehead. “There is no normal with him.”

“So…”

“Look. I’d say it’s just him gone for a wander. He finds something interesting and he’s missing for hours, days even. But… I don’t like it.” He let out a heavy sigh. “It doesn’t feel right.”

“I should check out the old site then?”

“Let me know, would you?” Lestrade’s face scrunched into a frown and relaxed. “I have a feeling I’m not going to like what you find.”

“I’ll bring some friends with me.”

“Good idea. Call me in an hour?”

“Will do. Thanks Uncle.”

“Runt,” Lestrade grunted as he hung up the phone. He slipped the phone into his pocket and rubbed his jaw.

“I take it your nephew has lost sight of him?” the voice purred from behind the desk.

Greg glanced up, “You don’t sound surprised.”

“Have you ever seen me surprised?” Mycroft leaned back in his chair and steepled his hands.

Lestrade snorted. “Once.”

Mycroft raised a single eyebrow in response.

“Why do I think there’s something you’re not telling me?”

Mycroft tilted his head, the eyebrow dropping back into place. “Certainly you cannot expect me to explain everything to you.”

Greg threw his hands up and huffed. “Not everything!”

“Just the things that matter, then?” he reached forward and picked up a file from his desk.

Greg opened his mouth as if to shout, but snapped it shut and shook his head instead, turning to leave. “Goddamn Holmeses…” he muttered under his breath. He pulled the large oaken door open and spun back to face Mycroft. “One of these days, you’re going to arrive home to find all of your waistcoats shredded and burned.”

“Quite,” Mycroft purred in response, his attention back on the files in front of him.

Greg shook his head again and left, closing the door gently on his way out.

 

~o~

 

John drummed his fingers absently on the wheel. He was still wound up. Jumpy, maybe? And he couldn’t decide if the dusk was making it better or worse. He checked the wing mirrors again, counting the cars and noting the reg plates. There was no sign that he was being followed now; there had been no sign that anyone had ever been following him, but he was being cautious. Paranoid even. He’d forsaken the direct route on the motorway in favor of a longer, scenic, rural road. It would be easier to spot a tail. It would be harder to set an ambush. It would be impossible to get out in front of him. Yeah, paranoid, and only thirty minutes on the road. At least they were heading into the Peak Forest: better cover, fewer cars.

He glanced into the rearview mirror. Sherlock was curled up in a ball of limbs and Belstaf on the bench seat. Sitting in the back had been John’s idea, sleeping had been Sherlock’s. It was probably for the best. Sherlock wasn’t ready to talk him, and John certainly didn’t want to talk about it either. No, silence was better right now. Silence and relief. He knew he’d been doing the right thing in going, in eliminating the threat, in protecting Sherlock. But he’d always assumed that Sherlock knew. He should have known; John had left him a god-dammed note. What genius couldn’t figure that out?

“Stop it,” Sherlock murmured.

John glanced over his shoulder. “What?”

“I can hear you thinking. It’s annoying,” Sherlock said flatly. “I can’t sleep with you being so distracting. Stop it.”

“You weren’t sleeping.”

“I might have been.”

“But you weren’t.”

Sherlock kept his eyes closed, but released a sigh that bordered on a groan.

“You don’t sleep anyway,” John huffed.

“Things change,” Sherlock hissed.

“Not you.”

Sherlock snorted. “How would you know?”

John winced and focused on the road ahead of them. They were approaching a cluster of cars and he needed to suss them out, or that’s what he told himself.

Sherlock shifted, unfolding his legs as much as the bench seat would allow, crossing his arms and hunching his shoulders. He heaved an irritated sigh and shifted again. “I won’t stay with Mycroft.”

“What?” John checked the wing mirrors; no one speeding up to keep up with them. If there was anyone keeping tabs, they were doing it very subtly. Or was that navy car working its way forward?

“Mycroft. I won’t stay in his house.”

“What makes you think I’m leaving you with Mycroft?” John’s voice remained even, but there was a twitch of annoyance at the corner of his mouth.

“You’ve been out of London for two years, John. How many other friends do you have to dump me on?”

John’s eyes narrowed. “What?”

“You’re not an idiot, John. Stop pretending to be dim.”

“Sherlock,” his voice dripped with warning.

“If not Mycroft, then whom? Molly? Lestrade? Please.” Sherlock frowned and leaned his head back, closing his eyes as if dismissing anything John could respond with. “You’re not expressly creative and you never have been. Clearly your plan involves returning me to London for safekeeping. You’ve never been a team player, so I can’t imagine you have set up a safe house of your own. Who do you have left in London? Harry and Mycroft. You wouldn’t trust your sister with a half-empty pint and it’s doubtful she knows you’re back, let alone alive. So logically, Mycroft.” Sherlock pulled a face as if repeating his brother’s name was distasteful. “And I’ve just told you that I won’t stay with him. Twice.”

John slammed on the brakes, veering sharply into what initially looked like solid trees. Sherlock let out a squawk of protest, bracing himself against the jarring turn as the Land Rover plunged a few feet onto a darkened dirt road, bouncing violently before leveling off. “Seatbelt, Sherlock,” John ground out, his knuckles white on the wheel.

“John, what are you doing?!”

“Seatbelt!” he snapped, jerking the wheel to the right and narrowly missing a large pine. The terrain surrounding the narrow path alternated between thick vegetation and rocky outcroppings.

“I think you might be overreacting, John.”

“Jesus Christ, Sherlock!” John roared. “I swear to God if I have to put your seatbelt on you, you will regret it. Put it the fuck on now!” The rear of the SUV fishtailed as John negotiated the next bend. Sherlock clambered over the divider and into the passenger seat, earning a scathing glare from John. But he buckled his belt and grabbed the handrail.

“I still think you’re overreacting.”

“Overreacting?” John glanced in the rearview mirror and swore under his breath. “If you want to play, we’ll play.”

“John?”

He cut the headlights. Sherlock’s eyes went wide momentarily. John wet his lips compulsively and fixed his gaze straight ahead, guiding the vehicle through the trees at a gut wrenching speed. It was near impossible to see the obstacles in the murk and haze with more than a hairsbreadth of a warning and Sherlock flinched as branches struck the frame of the SUV.

“John, please.”

Every line in his face was tight with focus and concentration. “Not now, Sherlock,” he ground out through clenched teeth, eying the dirt road and his speedometer simultaneously. Sherlock pressed his eyes shut, trying to find some resolve as John started counting down from ten. “Ten. Nine. Eight.”

“What are you doing?”

“Seven. Six.”

“John?”

“Five. Four.”

“What happens at zero?”

“Three. Two.”

“John?”

John sucked in a sharp breath and cranked the wheel as far left as it would go, throwing on the hand break and downshifting as quickly as possible. The Land Rover whipped around a blackened rock face in a tight two hundred and seventy degree spin and shuddered to a stop with the driver’s side door mere inches from the solid crag of earth. John reversed for five feet feet then cut the engine, releasing the pent up air from his lungs.

Silence stretched out inside the cab of the vehicle, the inky darkness of the forest pressing around them. The engine ticked a few times before quieting and for a moment, nothing moved. Sherlock stared at John, a small furrow of confusion and indignation creasing the space between his brows. He opened his mouth, taking a characteristic inhale known to precede a tirade. John held up a hand and cut him off, “Not a word, Sherlock.”

The sound of tires crunching along the forest floor grew closer and Sherlock watched as two sedans lumbered awkwardly past their shelter. Once the brake lights were lost in the dense trees, John pulled a mobile from his pocket and switched it on, watching the forest move while waiting for it to boot up.

“John, are you sure…?”

“Sherlock,” he warned, not bothering to glance at the inquisitive eyes slowly boring a hole into the side of his face. “Not another word.” The phone chimed and John punched in a number from memory, listening for the connection. “Hi… Yup… We’re coming in hot… If it’s not too much of a bother… Hour and ten… Absolutely.” He rang off without preamble.

“Friends of yours?”

“Apparently I don’t have any friends,” John muttered as he switched the phone back off. He shot Sherlock as scathing glance from under his brows.

The frown flicked across the corners of Sherlock’s mouth vanished into a snort and a chuckle. John broke into something of a grin and huffed out a laugh in spite of himself. When they finally managed to reign in their mirth, Sherlock sighed. “I’m still not staying with Mycroft.”

John shook his head and restarted the car. “For a genius, you’re a real idiot.”

“Me? I am?” Sherlock demanded indignantly. John refused to answer until he’d negotiated the car back onto the main road, leaving Sherlock to stew in the silence. “John?”

He cleared his throat. “If I wanted you with Mycroft, you’d have been collected from that kip in Manchester months ago. Now stop being daft.”

“Not with Mycroft?”

John rolled his eyes and snorted. “Not with Mycroft.”

“Then… Where?”

John frowned at Sherlock. “You’re the genius; you figure it out.”

 

~o~

 

_“Are you seeing what I’m seeing?”_

_“Captain?” the silence in the earpiece cleared briefly as the voice clipped in._

_John carefully ducked back from the ledge he was on. “I make four. One red, two natives and a Brit.”_

_“Can’t argue with you.”_

_“I take it your view is good enough to see who at that campfire takes their marshmallows well done?”_

_Murray grunted an affirmative._

_“Alright, I’m coming back to you.” Keeping low, he followed the outcropping back behind the shadow of the mountain. He wove his way through the rocks and shrubs until he could come up behind Murray’s hide. If he hadn’t known where it was, there was no chance that even he’d find it. He dropped in behind Murray. “I want them,” he said bluntly._

_“Capture or Corpse?”_

_The half smile that flitted across his mouth was in complete odds with the dark look in his eyes. “Corpses don’t talk, Murray. And we may need to bring one of them along. I hate dead weight.”_

_“Aye, Captain.”_

_“Lay them out for me. I’ll get personal.”_

_“May I suggest the west, sir? There’s decent cover, more light, and I can watch.”_

_Watson tapped his finger off Murray’s shoulder. “West it is.” Then he disappeared back into the shadows. It took nearly half an hour of creeping and caution, but when he was comfortably in place, he gave Murray the signal and four staccato sounds broke the still night air in rapid succession._

_The camp was thrown into chaos. “Mind the Brit, sir. I only just clipped him.”_

_“You’re getting sloppy, Murray.” John hunkered down behind his cover, watching for a moment longer. One man went for his gun, shooting aimlessly at the surrounding hills; what a waste of ammo. Murray was far enough away that there was no chance of even a ricochet coming near him. And from John’s position, he had a clean shot at the fool. Two more were curled up on the ground moaning, and John suspected that Murray had made sure they wouldn’t be getting up of their own volition. The Brit however, made a beeline for his vehicle._

_“Want me to stop him, sir?”_

_“Let him run. We’ll catch him later. I need to focus on these three first.” The one shooting ran out of ammo and John rolled out from his crouch and strode into the middle of the camp, Browning ready. Shoulder shot for the one with the gun, no more reloading there. Kneecap for the one trying to stand, stay down you fool. He stopped, hovering over the third, his muzzle casually focused on the man’s head. “Moran,” he hissed. “Where is he?”_

 

~o~

 

Greg stepped away from the cluster of Yarders at the crime scene. “Lestrade.”

“Uncle Greg?!”

“Teddy?” he went still. Something was wrong. Something was very wrong. “What’s happened?”

“I, I don’t know!” his words seemed to spill out in a rush. “I went to the building, the old one, the one from the case. But he’s gone. There’s, Greg, there’s bodies. I’ve three dead bodies here. One was stabbed, two were shot, and there are more bullet holes than bodies, and Sherlock is gone. I…”

“Teddy, Teddy, stop.” He put on the best ‘in charge’ voice he could muster.

“I’m so sorry. I lost him.”

“It’s not your fault, Teddy.”

“What? What can I do?”

Greg sighed and swiped his hand across his mouth. “Stay there. Do your job. Call me when you get ID on the vics, and give me an update in two hours, yeah?”

“Ok.”

His phone beeped with another incoming call and a quick glance at the screen made him scoff. “Teddy, I have to go. Sherlock does this, ok? It’s not your fault.”

“Ok.”

“Two hours, kid.”

“Yes, sir.”

Greg clicked over onto the other line. “Mycroft, we have a problem.”

“Detective Inspector.”

“Stop. Listen to me. Sherlock is gone.”

“I am aware,” Mycroft purred.

“There are three dead bodies up in Manchester. No one has seen Sherlock in hours. And… Wait, you’re aware?”

“Get into the car, Greg.”

Lestrade frowned as a black sedan glided to a stop a few feet away. “You have to be kidding me.”

“Now, Greg. We are on a schedule.”

Greg heaved a loud sigh. “You know.”

“Clearly. The car, please.”

Lestrade hung up the phone and rolled his eyes. “Donovan! You’ve got the run!” he barked. He waited for a nod of understanding. God dammed Holmses. Then plastering a diplomatic look on his face, he ducked into the car. “Mycroft,” he gave a nod as he settled on the soft leather seat.

“Detective Inspector,” Mycroft sniffed imperiously.

“I was working,” he said with irritation.

“And you still are.” Mycroft’s brow crooked as he turned to face him.

Greg just shook his head, “Of course I am.”


	4. Part IV: Purgatory Furlough

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU - reversing the roles from the fall; John falls, Sherlock is left. John returns for Sherlock... and the homecoming is not what he expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... This is taking a bit of a darker turn now. Most of the violence is implied... But if you are only looking for fluff, I would say you're not going to keep enjoying this. Then again, it does say major character death, so I won't be held completely accountable. I'll add any tw's that people feel are needed, but again, it's mostly implied... in THIS chapter.
> 
> Probably going to be a bit before I update again (sorry, this month is mental). But I hope you like this one.
> 
> As with the last chapter: all of the sequences in italics are flashbacks. They're stuck into the chapter at different points, but remain in their own chronological order. Italics within 'present' are texts... I don't know a better way to have them in there. [The one in italics and bold is a letter]
> 
> Enjoy!

The remainder of the drive was passing in silence and without incident. John sent Sherlock into the backseat again, to keep him out of sight of the increasing traffic as they neared the city, and of course from CCTV cameras. The sun was down, but city lights were brighter than in the boonies. John also sent him into the backseat so he’d stop staring so intently; it was off-putting when coupled with the silence, and John was trying to watch the road. When they crossed the M25, John turned his mobile back on and sent off a quick text, leaving it on and sitting in the cupholder.

“Are you sure that’s wise?”

“Oh, we’re speaking again, are we?” John glanced over his shoulder.

“People can trace a mobile, John.”

“And your brother will have been watching us on CCTV for the past few minutes with or without my mobile.” The mobile pinged and John opened the message that came in.

_Captain, safe or slaughter? –Mrr_

John chuckled as the attached photo opened.

_Safe. Both of them. Play nice. –Cpt_

“Who’s that?”

“Who’s what?”

“The text, John. Who was it from?”

_They won’t even know I’m here. –Mrr_

John slipped the phone into his pocket and smiled wryly. “I thought you were a detective.”

“Mycroft.”

“No,” John said briskly. “Sherlock, this isn’t about Mycroft. I trust him about as far as I can throw him.”

“Then where are we going?” Sherlock demanded.

“Where do you think we’re going?” John huffed. “You’re a consulting detective; you’re the only consulting detective; you know every street and corner of this damn city; and you’re the smartest man I know. Stop being a lazy twat and think.”

“I’m not…” Sherlock caught a breath and fixed John with a glare through the rearview mirror. “This is unacceptable.”

“It’s not open for debate.”

“No, John. I’d rather stay with Mycroft.”

John snorted. “No you wouldn’t.”

“I’ll not stay.”

“Then I’ll tie you to your chair,” the humor was laced with something darker and John’s smile lacked amusement. “If you try to leave in a strop, Sherlock, there’ll be more than words. Though do feel free to sulk about. God help me, I’ve missed that.”

“I don’t sulk about,” Sherlock snapped.

“Ha!”

“I need time to think, John. How is this your plan? Put me back in Baker Street? Hardly Fort Knox. And with a sniper about; yes sniper, obviously, the one you missed the last time, the one that seems so proficient and managed to take out his own hired goons; with that sniper about, what? We’ll just pull up to the curb and waltz in through the front door? Clearly you’ve put less than your normal subpar thought process into this one.”

John sniffed loudly, a dark look on his face, the combination a relic of the wars. Murray had once suggested it was all the dry and sand that had crept into his sinuses, irritating him from the inside out. John knew better; he was always irritated. This was more. This was keeping that murderous impulse from escaping, sucking it back in and cramming it down into a filthy corner of the shambles of his soul. He’d need it later, but not now. “Shut up, Sherlock.”

Whether he took heed of the warning tone of John’s voice or he noticed the white knuckled grip John had on the wheel, Sherlock collapsed into the backseat with a huff.

 

~o~

 

Greg Lestrade was at the end of his rope. He’d had enough of the Holmes brothers’ interjections in his life. If it wasn’t supplying Sherlock with a case, or picking him up off the street, or micromanaging his recovery from afar, it was like having an extra large toddler to mind. To mind in addition to his job! It was one thing when Sherlock was, in his own twisted way, was helping the Yard. But it had been two years since he’d been helpful in London, and a tentative six months that he hadn’t been a hindrance in Manchester. At least Sherlock needed him… In a way. Sherlock needed… Something.

But sitting in the back of the government car, the leather seats made him uncomfortable. Made him shift against his own skin. Hell, it wasn’t the leather seats; it was the unwavering, completely unnerving, omnipotent stare of Mycroft Holmes. It was akin to the all-knowing arrogance that Greg had despaired from his parents when he’d done something wrong as a kid. And every time he saw the look from Mycroft, he had the uncomfortable feeling that he’d done something naughty and Mycroft knew all about it.

He heaved a sigh. “Where are you taking me, Mycroft?”

Mycroft looked down his nose and smoothed an imaginary scuff from the handle of his umbrella. “Taking you, Detective Inspector? You entered the car willingly, did you not?”

Greg clenched his jaw and smiled with a closed mouth. He knew that if he showed his teeth, it would look more like a grimace than a grin. “I did, didn’t I? I need to have my head examined.”

“I think you’re quite sane, Gregory. I wouldn’t ask your help otherwise.”

“Ask?” Lestrade demanded incredulously. “’Get in the car,’ is not a question. Now where are we going?”

Mycroft’s brow arched. “What do you know about what happened in Manchester?”

Lestrade blew out a breath. “Is that what this is about?”

Mycroft tilted his head in assent.

“I know that Teddy let Sherlock look into a cold case. Sherlock left the station first thing this morning and didn’t return. And the building he was heading to is now home to three dead bodies. I’m waiting to hear back on IDs, and Teddy is beside himself for losing track of Sherlock.”

“Without being patronizing, Manchester won’t be able to identify the bodies. Their records are too well expunged. Besides, he’s in London.” Mycroft twirled the umbrella with his fingertips.

“Who’s in London? Teddy?”

“No,” Mycroft purred.

“Then…” Lestrade groaned pressed his palm to his forehead. “You mean Sherlock; Sherlock is in London.”

“Mmn,” Mycroft pursed his lips thoughtfully.

“And that’s where we’re going. We’re going to wherever you have Sherlock stashed for the moment.”

Mycroft sniffed. “Were it that simple, I suspect I wouldn’t need your help.”

“Wait, what?” Greg sat forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

“I said, it is not that simple.”

“No,” Lestrade smirked. “You said you need my help.”

“Did I?”

“Don’t you play coy.” He sat back with a grin that actually looked pleased. “Who’s messed up your plan then? Not Sherlock. You’d have just sent me to talk to him. So who got their spanner into your cogs?”

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “Smug does not suit you, Detective Inspector.”

“Sure it does,” Greg smiled broadly. “Who’s left that could get your stuffy panties in a wad?”

Mycroft frowned. “An old friend.”

Lestrade glanced out the window as the car rolled to a stop. “Baker Street?”

 

~o~

_A high-pitched whine broke John’s concentration. His head shot up as he squinted at the horizon. “Murray?”_

_“Captain! From the North!”_

_The whine grew into a scream. “Shit!” he holstered his pistol and took off at a sprint. Distance. He needed distance._

_“Sir, five hundred yards at your three.” John put his head down and pushed harder, the screaming getting louder. He felt the muscles in his legs start to burn and cramping pain spreads down from his shoulder. “Sir. Get a move on!”_

_With one final burst of energy, John launched himself into the small shelter of craggy rock. He managed to press his forearms over his ears just before the explosion, the heat and sound knocked him flat. John rolled onto his hands and knees, trying to shake the ringing from his head as the dust settled. He coughed. “Murray?”_

_The static cleared from the coms, “Captain? You good?”_

_“I’m dusty.” He coughed again and pushed back to sit on his heels. “I’m coming back up. Watch my six.”_

_“Always. You’re clear, Sir.”_

_He took his time, staying in the cover of the landscape, picking his way through the shadows. What was left of the day’s unbearable heat had dissipated into a frosty chill, and by the time he’d gotten back to the hide, all the warmth of adrenaline and battle had drained into an aching cold. Captain John Watson was tired. “What the fuck was that, Murray?” he demanded, dropping to the ground with a wince._

_“Looked like an RPG.”_

_John frowned. “From where?”_

_Murray flinched. “Sorry, Sir.”_

_“Was it from the Brit? He got out in that Humvee. Maybe…”_

_Murray was shaking his head. “Here,” he handed John the scope. “Have a look.”_

_John followed the line to see the slow burning shell of a vehicle. “Is that what I think it is?”_

_Murray gave a non-committal nod. “It was two RPGs?”_

_“So someone knows.”_

_“I don’t think they do. Not entirely.”_

_John glanced at his hands; ugh he still had blood on them. He picked up a handful of sand and rolled it around between his palms. “How not entirely?”_

_“Look, Captain, we’ve been careful. Our guns are all Israeli, with the exception of your Browning, which is…”_

_“Sentimental,” John muttered._

_“Comfortable and tried,” Murray corrected. “Our equipment is Russian, the ammo is American, the intel is British, the supplies are local. We’re ghosts. They have no idea who we are. But…”_

_“But?”_

_“But they must know what we’re after.”_

_John’s mouth drew back into a grim line. “So they destroy the camp before we can get another lead.”_

_“The Brit out there couldn’t have been him. He’d never be so careless. But the poor bastard must have known something.”_

_John shook his head. “That was the last one we had, Murray.” He blew out a large breath in frustration. “Fucker is going to disappear into this giant litter box.”_

_His spotter made a curiously thoughtful face. “Captain, if you were them. And you were being hunted. And you knew where your pursuers were, but not who they were, what would you do?”_

_John’s eyes went dark and a very small smirk pulled at the corner of his mouth. “I’d bring the fight home.”_

_Murray nodded. “Back to the source, yeah?”_

_John sniffed. “You’re right.”_

_A large grin broke out over Murray’s face. “Does this mean I get some proper tea for once?”_

_John rubbed the back of his neck for a moment. “Ugh, fine. Let’s pack up and go.”_

_“London?”_

_“London,” John said with finality._

 

~o~

“This isn’t the turn for Baker Street,” Sherlock muttered into the seat cushion.

John snorted and turned down another narrow alleyway. “It is now.” A frown flit across Sherlock’s face as he sat forward. A garage door opened into a ramp and John negotiated the narrow turns with ease, stopping first at a reinforced door then reversing into a car space just big enough for the Land Rover. “I had some upgrades made while you were away.”

“Upgrades?” Sherlock snorted. _We_ , he thought. _We were away_.

“Come on,” John hopped out of the car and retrieved his duffle from the back. He pressed his thumb to a panel next to the door and punched in a number code. The first door opened to reveal a second, which John unlocked with a key and headed into the empty, carpeted room.

Sherlock sucked in a breath. “Is this?”

“Yup,” John tossed him a key.

“But then…” He glanced around. “It looks the same.”

“That’s the point, Sherlock.” John bobbed his head toward the stairs and Sherlock followed. The entryway looked the same. The front door from the inside, same. Mrs. Hudson’s door, same. “She’s not home right now, Sherlock. She’s off visiting a relative.”

“For her own protection, I suppose.”

John shrugged the shoulder not supporting the bag. “Things might get messy. I don’t like collateral damage.”

“She doesn’t know?”

John gave a quick shake of his head. “It’s better for now.”

“I know.”

John nodded.

“Who else knows?”

The ceiling creaked and Sherlock’s gaze rose. John followed his line of sight and a wry smile crossed his lips. “Oh good, they’re already here.”

“You knew they were here,” Sherlock murmured.

“Again, that’s the point.”

Sherlock trailed after John, running his fingers along the textured wallpaper as they mounted the stairs. It was the same. He blinked, hearing the voices coming from the sitting room. Something in the way John was moving, he wasn’t stiff, he wasn’t limping, he was actually moving with absolute silence. Even his boots were whisper quiet on the wooden stairs. That was different.

“But what are we doing here?” The irritated question reached Sherlock’s ears and he couldn’t suppress the cheeky grin: Lestrade.

John had reached the landing and entered through the kitchen. He pursed his lips, watching Lestrade’s anxious and annoyed pacing until Mycroft noticed that they’d arrived. John dumped the duffle unceremoniously on the floor, “You’re here, because I asked him to bring you.”

To say that Lestrade had no instinct for self-preservation would be a lie, but his inclinations seemed to lean toward protective first. He spun around, taking a step in front of Mycroft with his pistol drawn. Then he stalled, his face mapping the confusion, concern, and surprise as they flit through his mind. “John?”

John tilted his head and shrugged, a half smile on his face. “Hey, Greg.”

“But… But you’re dead.”

Mycroft set the tip of his umbrella on Lestrade’s forearms, easing the pistol down. “Not dead,” Mycroft said with finality. “Is Sherlock with you?”

“Thank you, Mycroft,” this time, John’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “And of course he is.”

Sherlock stripped his coat as he strode into the room from behind John. Chairs, same. Windows, same. Couch, same. Mycroft, off his diet, put on three pounds, problems with North Korea, same. Lestrade, divorce finalized, fresh murder case, poor sleep, lost his rugby match over the weekend, bad coffee this morning, same. John… He paused, his head rotating slowly as he looked around the room. The light was different.

“Bullet proof glass,” John answered before Sherlock could ask. “Blast resistant walls.”

“Thorough,” Sherlock murmured, tossing his coat on the sofa then crossing the room to flop gracefully into his chair. “Everything back to normal. How wonderful.” He drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair.

Lestrade holstered his gun, cleared his throat, and rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m confused.”

Sherlock snorted. John sighed heavily, “I need you to keep Sherlock company while I have a chat with Mycroft.”

“Keep him company?” Greg huffed.

Mycroft raised a brow, “I have every confidence that Sherlock will remain in the flat long enough to prove your sniper friend across the way rather unnecessary, Captain Watson.”

“What?” Sherlock sat forward with a scowl.

“He’s not there to keep you here, Sherlock. He’s there because of the friends we made in Manchester.” John waved Lestrade off. “Teddy will be fine. But that’s why we’re here.”

“You’re here because of Teddy?” Lestrade asked.

John sighed again, “We’re here to draw them away from Teddy. Look, Greg, just… Just stay here for a minute, will you?”

Lestrade rolled his eyes and dropped into John’s chair, making a face at Sherlock. “Yeah, fine, whatever you need.” John and Mycroft took their conversation out onto the landing, speaking in hushed voices that wouldn’t carry into the sitting room. “So,” Lestrade started, glancing up at Sherlock. “John is…”

“Yup.”

“And, he went to find you in Manchester?”

“Yup.”

“And you’re… ok with that?”

Sherlock narrowed his gaze, his mouth drawn into a thin line.

“Right. Yeah, right.” Greg looked at his hands, then back up at Sherlock.

Sherlock tilted his head ever so slightly and cocked a brow, the expression both identical and yet so different from when Mycroft did the same. “What?”

Greg couldn’t keep the humor from his face. “Sherlock,” he shook his head. “What the hell is that on your face?”

Sherlock emitted a choked off, irritated groan and shot out of the chair, making a bee-line for the bathroom, closing himself in.

Greg gestured with his thumb when John and Mycroft returned, “Bathroom.”

“Is that wise?” Mycroft eyed the closed door.

Greg huffed. “Stop it.”

John frowned, his eyes narrowing at the exchange. He’d missed something. “I think we’ll be fine for the rest of the night.”

“Quite,” Mycroft turned on his heel made his way to the landing.

John’s phone chimed as Mycroft and Lestrade headed down the stairs.

_Is this some sort of dumb test, Sir? –Mrr_

John frowned. Murray wasn’t one to break silence for no reason. He phoned back. “What test?”

“Captain, the package under the car? It wasn’t even stealthy. Tell me that’s not supposed to be a test, because it’s insulting.”

“What package?” John hissed.

“Not a test?”

“Murray,” he barked.

“Someone just stuck something under that black sedan your friends arrived in.”

“Shit!” John dropped the phone and ran. “Mycroft!” he barked from the top of the stairs, catching himself on the railing to right himself.

Lestrade was halfway out the door, Mycroft on his heels, but he heard John and turned. “What?”

“Down!” John barked as he took the stairs two at a time.

Lestrade shot a glance out the door, a strange clicking sound catching his attention. Just as the black sedan exploded up and out, Greg threw himself back inside the flat, smothering Mycroft to the floor in the process. John slammed his shoulder into the door, shutting it against the heat and shrapnel. He slid down the door to sit on the tiles as Lestrade managed to roll himself off of Mycroft. The three sat on the floor in various states of composure for a moment, the clattering of bits of metal still audible through the door.

“Alright?” John broke the silence with a snort.

Mycroft raised a brow, “Is that why he’s out there then?”

John grinned and gave a nod. “Course.”

Lestrade frowned and pushed up onto his knees. “Yeah, I’ve missed this.”

“That’s why you’re here, Detective Inspector.”

 

~o~

 

_Sherlock adjusted his cuffs to sit more appropriately on his wrists. His suits didn’t fit quite right, but he couldn’t bring himself to have them taken in. He’d lost a bit of weight since… Well no one seemed to force tea and toast on him… He sighed heavily and pulled on the lapels with agitation. It didn’t feel right. He ran his fingers through his hair, shaking out the curls to cover the pallor of his face. That was as good as it was going to get._

_“Sherlock?”_

_He heaved another sigh. Do not be rude to Lestrade, he thought to himself. Do not be rude to Lestrade. He’d be far more likely to be priggish if Mycroft had come to collect him, so this was a small blessing. “Here,” he called back, collecting the last of his belongings. His bag was small, almost unbearably so, but it felt like an anvil when he hoisted it up onto his shoulder. Too much of the weight had been muscle mass._

_Lestrade smiled when Sherlock emerged. “There you are.”_

_Sherlock held out his hands. Of course, that’s where he was; not like he’d been given a choice in the matter. “Lestrade,” he said coolly. Forced smile, he didn’t want to collect Sherlock, this was a chore. Dull. Leaving with permission through the front door, that was a pleasant change._

_“Now, I know you’re not one to celebrate, Sherlock,” Greg started, taking the bag from him without question. “But I brought something for you.” Sherlock watched as Lestrade tossed the bag into the boot of his car and pulled out a shoebox with a bow on it. “It’s not a big deal, but I just thought…”_

_Sherlock caught it as it bounced off of his chest. Not shoes. Ribbon was one of Lestrade’s daughter’s bows. Rushed to wrap it. He eased the lid off. “A scarf?”_

_“Well, you know. I know you didn’t have one, not here, and you always seem to get cold.” Greg shifted uneasily. “It’s a new one. You don’t have to like it, but it’ll tide you over.”_

_Sherlock let the fabric run across his palm. Maybe it hadn’t been a forced smil;, maybe it was something else. Sherlock’s brows furrowed. “Th-Thank you.” It sounded too much like a question._

_Lestrade’s mouth drew back into one of his well-know, lopsided grins. “Ah, now.” He ducked down, collecting something else from the boot before slamming it shut. “It’ll look better with this.”_

_Sherlock felt the smile on his lips before he could hide it. His coat. Maybe Lestrade was more helpful than he’d thought._

_Settled in the car and halfway back to London, Lestrade cleared his throat. “Sherlock, I have a favor to ask.”_

_A look of distaste crossed Sherlock’s face, but he remained silent._

_“My nephew, Teddy, he’s a good kid…”_

_“Nephew? You don’t have any siblings. How could you have… Oh, through your ex-wife then. Did you get to keep him in the divorce?”_

_Lestrade grumbled under his breath. “Yes, he’s my brother-in-law… Ex-brother-in-law’s kid. He’s a good kid and is working for the DIC in Manchester. Just moved to Detective Constable. But he’s in Manchester.”_

_“Training in Manchester not up to snuff?” Sherlock asked wryly._

_“Not really, no.” He rubbed the back of his neck absently. “He’s bright, Sherlock. He’ll be great. But not with the lads in Manchester doing all his training.”_

_“Why not bring him to the Met?”_

_“I can’t,” Greg grumbled. “He’s not senior enough. It would look…”_

_“Nepotistic?” Sherlock offered with a smirk._

_“Yeah, I guess.”_

_“That’s because it would be.”_

_Lestrade sighed. “He would learn so much working with you.”_

_“With me?” Sherlock snorted. “Like you did?”_

_Lestrade stared at the side of Sherlock’s face for as long as he dared have his eyes off the road. “You made me a better cop,” he said firmly. “And you’re a right sodding prat about it, so I don’t for a second think you don’t know it.”_

_“Manchester,” Sherlock winced slightly._

_“Just for a month or two, Sherlock,” Lestrade’s speech sped up incrementally as he went. “It would keep the bad habits of the lads up there from rubbing off on Teddy, and I’m sure there’d be plenty of work for you.”_

_“And then what?”_

_Greg shrugged. “I don’t know, Sherlock. You know I’d have you back in a heartbeat, but…”_

_“Mmn,” Sherlock hummed._

_“Right,” Greg finished. “Will you think about it? It would mean a lot to me, Sherlock. It really would.”_

 

~o~

 

By the time Sherlock emerged from the bathroom, Mycroft and Lestrade had been retrieved by a fresh car and escorted back to a secured government location. “Did you save any hot water there, Sherlock?” Sherlock padded into the sitting room in pajamas and a dressing gown, the edges fluttering in his wake like a cape. He grunted in response and John snorted.

“Right,” John finally shed his jacket and button down, draping them over his chair. “I’m going to shower. I’ll fix us something to eat when I’m done.”

“You’re bleeding.”

“What?” John twisted as Sherlock leapt up from the couch, his hands grabbing John’s worn out tee and tugging it over his head. “Sherlock, stop,” John squirmed, stepping back and examining his side before Sherlock could relieve him of his vest as well. He fingered the tear in his vest. “It’s just a graze,” he muttered. “It’s already closed.”

“When?”

John shrugged. “I was in a knife fight this morning. You should see the other guy.”

Sherlock frowned angrily. “You didn’t notice?”

“It’s not a big deal.” He sighed and shook his head, peeling his vest off as he headed to the bathroom. “I really need a shower.”

Presented with the broad and partially tanned expanse of John’s back, Sherlock made a pained noise high in his throat. The two years had toned him, added to the bulk of his arms and shoulders, added freckles and colour to an otherwise familiar landscape. Even the exit wound on John’s left shoulder was more the same than different. If anything, it was neater, cleaner, better healed. But the scars… large, white and red, some slightly raised, creating a tartan running from John’s right shoulder and disappearing into the waistband of his pants.

“What?” John half turned, catching Sherlock’s line of sight. Oh. “It’s nothing,” he muttered, and resumed his walk to the bathroom.

When he was done, when he felt clean, when he’d had a shave and patched up the new laceration, and John came back out to the sitting room, Sherlock had stopped talking for the evening. And an hour later, John decided to sleep, leaving Sherlock to his sulk and his untouched dinner and his lukewarm tea. He had missed this, right?

Four hours later, John wasn’t sleeping; not really. If he was honest with himself, he hadn’t really slept in two years. There was too much going on. There was too much to plan. There was too much to do. There was too much history and pain and Sherlock. And this was not what he wanted. The silence in Baker Street was deafening and he found himself missing the breeze and the bugs and Murray’s snoring and Sherlock’s pacing, which had stopped a few hours ago, and the violin, which had stopped before the pacing.

He shifted, trying to find a comfortable position to sleep in. The bed was too soft. Too cozy. Too familiar and foreign. He groaned and punched the pillow.

“JOHN NO!”

John sat up like a dart. Sherlock. John was down the stairs before his eyes were fully open.

“No, please!”

John sucked in a breath at the anguish in Sherlock’s voice. Shit shit shit. He bolted for Sherlock’s room, throwing the door open without knocking. “Sherlock?” Sherlock thrashed against the sheets and made a whimpering noise. Oh. Oh no. “Sherlock,” he called again, crossing to the bed, setting a hand on one bony shoulder.

“NO!”

John ducked under a flailing fist as Sherlock cried out again in his sleep. He was going to hurt himself. John clambered up onto the bed, pinning Sherlock down. “Sherlock!” John snapped, tightening his grip on the man’s slender wrists. “Sherlock, wake up!”

“John!” Sherlock bellowed, his eyes shooting open as he twisted against John’s hold.

“Sherlock, stop,” John said firmly, finally catching his conscious attention. “Stop it. It was just a nightmare.”

Sherlock’s eyes were wide, dark and confused, standing out against the pallor of his face. “John?” He sucked in a few shuddering breaths before he managed to control his breathing.

John released Sherlock’s wrists, sitting back on his heels where his knees were framing Sherlock’s hips. “Alright?” he raised his brows.

John watched with a frown as Sherlock’s face shuttered, smoothed, and washed clean of emotion. “Get off.”

John cleared his throat and shifted off to the side. Sherlock sat quickly, swinging his legs over the side of the bed, holding himself achingly upright and still. John’s brow furrowed. “Sherlock, are you alright?”

“I’m fine, John,” he dismissed the thought with an absent wave of his hand. “Everything is fine.”

“It’s not fi-” John cut himself off and heaved a sigh. It wasn’t fine. Sherlock wasn’t fine. John knew normal nightmares and horror born of hallucination. He knew what it was to wake up in a panic. And it was anything but fine. Slowly, carefully, he pushed off the bed and headed for the door. “I’ll put the kettle on.”

Sometimes routine was the best therapy. John trudged into the kitchen, flicked on the lights as he went, filled the kettle and turned it on. He pulled down two mugs and fished in the fridge for some milk. But leaning against the worktop in just his boxers and vest, he realized how chilled the flat was. He’d been away too long if this was going to be considered cold. With a shrug and a sigh, he slogged back upstairs and retrieved one of his old jumpers and a pair of pajama pants. It would have to do.

Something tugged at the back of his mind. Something off. Something wrong. He checked the windows out back, he checked the doors, he checked the security cameras. No. Nothing. His phone chimed.

_Up late, Captain? –Mrr_

He scrubbed his forehead with the back of his hand.

_Just early. Nothing to worry about. - Cpt_

He made it back to the kitchen just as the kettle clicked off and set about assembling the two mugs, his mind buzzing, flitting around the rooms ahead of him. What was it?

_If he wakes you up again, I could just tranq him. –Mrr_

John laughed.

_Believe me, I’ve thought about it. But no. Fuck off back to your job. –Cpt_

_On it, Captain. –Mrr_

With a mug in each hand, he headed back to Sherlock’s room. Maybe that was what was bothering him: being in Sherlock’s room. John could count the number of times he’d been in that room on one hand. Sherlock’s room was some sort of lair, a sanctuary, Sherlock’s burrow of solitude. It was the dividing line between a sulk that he wanted distraction from and a sulk that demanded isolation. Sherlock in a huff on the sofa was far different than Sherlock in his room with the door closed.

But the door was open when John returned. Sherlock was still sitting on the far side of the bed, but his spine was bent, his head in his hands, this fingers tugging at his curls. John cleared his throat and Sherlock went still. “I brought you some tea. Do you want to come out to the sitting room, or will I…?”

“Leave it, John.”

The corners of his mouth twitched, but John carefully placed the mug on the bedside table. He eyed Sherlock, the crushed line of his back, the missing weight that seemed to burden his shoulders, the unsettled way he was twisting his fingers in his hair, the new and pale lines along his frail looking wrists. John blinked and set his own mug on the table, a deep frown marring his face. “Sherlock,” he took a step toward the bed.

“I said leave it, John.”

“Sherlock, look at me.” When Captain John Watson wanted someone’s attention, he knew how to gain it. Sherlock had been no different. Yes, there were times when Sherlock didn’t want to listen, refused to acknowledge, didn’t even realize John wasn’t there, but when John Watson wanted Sherlock’s attention, he had it.

“What?” Sherlock snapped, twisting his torso to glare at John. The anger melted from his expression when he saw the look on John’s face. The frown John wore was angry, but the lines around his eyes were sad. Sherlock searched for an explanation, not finding one in the normal places. He couldn’t read this John the way he used to.

John’s left hand opened and closed, in and out of a fist as he studied Sherlock. His mouth pressed into a firm line, but his eyes were soft and sorrowful. All of the conflicting things that were John Watson seemed to leak out around his rigid posture and his knit jumper.

“What?” Sherlock repeated, none of the previous venom remaining.

“What are those?” John asked carefully.

Sherlock swallowed. “What?”

“You know damn well, what.” John sounded tired. He didn’t sound angry or resentful or offended, just world-weary.

Sherlock stared. He didn’t have words for these things. Were there even words about this? About… the tightness in his chest that was making it impossible to breathe and the buzzing in his head that was making it impossible to think and this exhaustion that left his limbs trembling and the heat from John’s gaze that was shredding his skin and tearing open the old wounds and left him bleeding there on the bed. What words? “John,” Sherlock breathed. John clenched his jaw and Sherlock panicked. “I… I don’t have friends,” he stuttered.

John released his breath in a huff and dropped his head, letting it hang loosely between his shoulders. With a heavy sigh, he raised his head again. “Is that why you were so… upset? Earlier?”

Sherlock just stared. He still didn’t have words.

“Do you wh…? Do you want me to stay?”

John seemed to accept Sherlock’s silence as a negative. He swallowed and gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. “I... I’m s-,” John heaved a sigh. “Get some sleep, Sherlock.” We can talk about it in the morning. Talk, he laughed to himself. We don’t talk. “I’ll, I’m just upstairs.”


	5. Part V: The Slippery Slope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU - reversing the roles from the fall; John falls, Sherlock is left. John returns for Sherlock... and so does the Colonel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... I'm going to earn my tags... You have been warned. Most of the violence is implied, some of it is point blank... But if you are only looking for fluff, I would say you're not going to keep enjoying this. Then again, it does say major character death, so I won't be held completely accountable. I'll add any tw's that people feel are needed:
> 
> tw: character death  
> tw: gun violence  
> tw: implied torture  
> tw: implied self-harm
> 
> Apologies for the long wait. This chapter is roughly double the length of the previous ones, and I hope it tides you over. Probably going to be a bit before I update again (sorry, this month is mental too). But I hope you like this one.
> 
> As with the last chapter: all of the sequences in italics are flashbacks. They're stuck into the chapter at different points, but remain in their own chronological order. Italics within 'present' are texts... I don't know a better way to have them in there. [The one in italics and bold is a letter]. And as always, thank you to Sociy for the prompt that started this and thank you to Reichy, my beta buns.
> 
> Enjoy!

Teddy glared woefully at the crime scene photos. Three. There were three dead men in their morgue. Three dead, local men and one extremely pissed of Chief. He worried his lower lip as he continuously rotated his phone, flipping over in his palm. They were local men, he was certain. But they seemed to have absolutely no identity. So. Three men go into the building. Mr. Holmes had been there… Maybe before? He’d dropped his magnifying glass. That made Teddy more uncomfortable somehow. Sherlock wasn’t absent enough to leave it behind by accident.

One man – dead from stabbing. Two men – dead from multiple gunshot wounds… From two different guns… From two very different guns and different shooters. And no shells that they could find from the second shooter; bussed his own brass, the jerk. Two broken windows, two broken fire extinguishers, five other unfulfilled, high caliber rounds in the building and car park. Broken glass. Spin marks from a set of tires. Quick getaway and then what? Did they… Did they take Sherlock? Did they rescue Sherlock?

Teddy actually growled and rubbed the back of his head. Radio silence from London wasn’t helping. Uncle Greg had stopped answering his phone, and the Met said he was out on a case. They were not equipped for this. Teddy was not equipped for this. This was the kind of case that Sherlock would have jumped at; it was why he’d been here.

“You still here, kid?”

Teddy glanced up as his boss poked a head into the room. “Yeah. Just me.”

“Get some rest, Carlson. Fresh eyes in the morning.”

Teddy sighed heavily.

“Don’t sass me, kid. You’ll go grey before you’re forty. Out. Now.”

Teddy rolled his eyes, but smiled anyway. He knew how young he looked, but if it were to happen, he’d survive. Hell, Uncle Greg didn’t seem to mind. It made him look more distinguished. “Yes, boss,” he called back as the older man disappeared out the front door.

He clenched his lower lip between his teeth, releasing it slowly as he considered the pictures. He could just bring them back in tomorrow, right? No one would notice. Yeah. He wasn’t done for the night, but being the last in the office was dull. Teddy collected the papers, slipped them into an envelope, and tucked it into the breast pocket of his coat. He tugged the wax on and zipped it shut; not only was it dark out, but damn if it hadn’t started to rain. With a quick glance back at his desk, he headed out of the office and out onto the street.

Sprinkling, it was only sprinkling. Surely there was proper rain to follow, but he’d take whatever break the world was willing to toss his way. He turned up the small collar on his coat and stuffed his hands into his pockets, starting down the sidewalk. Three steps later, he stopped and a slight frown marred his young face. What was wrong? He glanced over his shoulder. The streetlights were out in front of the station.

His brow furrowed as he half turned. The next set of lights went out, then another, and another, moving in a wave down the street until the entire block was plunged into darkness. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end, and Teddy very slowly took his hands out of his pockets. The slight crunch of gravel was the only sign of the approaching car, but his attention was strongly focused on the two, very large, very armed men that materialized from the shadows of the building.

Teddy deeply regretted about five things in the blink of an eye, the least of which was that his phone was buried in his back pocket and his service pistol was zipped under his coat. Then he was keenly aware of the car idling at his back, the crack of a door, and the gaping barrel of a pistol pointing at his head. He swallowed and did his best not to move.

“Get in!” the man barked.

 

~o~

 

_Sherlock sniffed as he glanced around the lobby of the Manchester Special Branch. It left something to be desired. All of Manchester left something to be desired. This whole situation left something to be desired. He glanced up at the main office, the fishbowl in the middle of the bullpen, watching Lestrade interact with the DCI and resisting the urge to fidget with his scarf. Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. Even though Lestrade was outranked by age and station, the DCI seemed to be going to unusual lengths to kowtow to the London DI. Interesting._

_Lestrade exhaled a large breath and smiled, shaking hands with the DCI. Something was settled. He opened the door and waved Sherlock over. “Sherlock, this is DCI Barnwell. He’s running the show down here.”_

_“’Lo, Mr. Holmes,” the DCI stuck out a beefy hand._

_Sherlock’s eyes flicked from head to toe before he plastered a spurious smile on his face and extended his hand. “Sir.”_

_“I think you’ll find we do things here just like London!”_

_The smile left Sherlock’s eyes as he tilted his head and released the man’s hand. Lestrade saw the twitch at the corner of Sherlock’s mouth and covered the sound of Sherlock’s sharp intake of breath with an arm around his shoulders. “No,” he whispered as he turned Sherlock toward the back corner of the office. Louder, “Come on, Sherlock. I’ll introduce you to your new partner.”_

_The DCI chuckled as they moved away. “Keep that Carlson lad outta trouble, will ya? He’s a bit of a handful!”_

_Sherlock waited to be out of earshot. “That man is a moron.”_

_“Tell me about it,” Greg muttered. “I think you see why I want you to give Teddy a hand, yeah?”_

_Sherlock sighed, “I promise nothing.”_

_“You never have.”_

_Lestrade knocked on a banal office door and put on his best Yarder voice. “Carlson?”_

_“It’s open.”_

_Sherlock followed Lestrade into the room. It was small. Two desks were crammed into the center of the room with filing cabinets peppering the walls. More than one pinboard hung on the walls with a cacophonous variety of bulletins. There were books and papers covering every surface save the desks, one of which was unoccupied, the other held the contents of Teddy’s current focus. Oddly, four hardcover copies of the Northwest Protocol sat on the closest shelf. Sherlock gave an amused smirk. Interesting._

_Lestrade cleared his throat and the young man’s face tipped up from the file on his desk. His ruddy brown hair gave the impression of auburn highlights, maybe a proper red when he was younger. He must have had a serious peppering of freckles when he was a child, but they’d have faded into the fair complexion now present. Sherlock considered the lack of family resemblance for a moment. Of course, there was no blood relation, there was no reason they should look alike, but somehow Sherlock had been expecting it; a miniature version of Lestrade. Teddy’s features were far more delicate than Lestrade’s, but the scowl at the interruption was an expression Sherlock had seen many times over. Clearly manifest of the youthfulness he’d be reminded of day in and day out in a career such as this, but he wore it well. It was familiar. Interesting._

_“Uncle Greg!” The scowl melted into a broad grin as Teddy stood and compulsively dusted his fingertips on his trousers. There it was. Physical differences aside, Teddy seemed to have modeled his mannerisms after his uncle. There were far worse archetypes he could have chosen. Grew up outside Manchester, public school but local, three older sisters; his father must have been friends with Lestrade, but distanced by the divorce; smart one in the family and black sheep, looked up to Lestrade for having a career without being pretentious, family tells him he’s being wasted as a copper; footballer, non-smoker, social drinker, unattached, no pets, cactus that he has trouble keeping alive, refers to Lestrade as ‘Uncle Greg.’_

_Sherlock’s nose wrinkled ever so slightly and Lestrade saw it. “Yes, Greg,” he murmured. “Please stop deleting my name.” There was no venom in his voice and his serious demeanor vanished as he gave Teddy a massive hug. “Hey, Runt.”_

_Oh, God, he was a hugger. Sherlock tried not to groan aloud. Teddy turned, his smile wide. Ah, eyes as well. The eyes were the same. Brown, a pleasant dark brown. But where Lestrade’s expressions, even the happy ones, were always guarded, Teddy’s eyes were guileless. Not enough misery to age him yet. This job would change that. “Sherlock, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”_

_At least he offered a handshake instead of a hug, Sherlock thought wryly. “DC Carlson.”_

_Teddy glanced at Lestrade and huffed. “Please, call me Teddy. Or I’ll call you Mr. Holmes and people will think you demanded it, and no one will be friends.”_

_“Friends?” Sherlock raised a brow._

_Teddy snorted. “Friendly. I misspoke.”_

_“Mmn,” Sherlock hummed._

_Lestrade just shook his head. He ruffled Teddy’s hair, “Mind yourself, Runt. And don’t take any shit from him.” Teddy chuckled and Sherlock made an indignant sound. “And you,” he pointed at Sherlock. “Behave yourself.”_

 

~o~

 

Lestrade glared at Mycroft from across the room. He crossed his arms over his chest, propped his shoulder against the wall, and glared some more. Mycroft turned the page of the report lying on the desk in front of him and Lestrade smiled and glared harder. He could play this game; fancied he was actually quite good at it. Working on interrogation was second in training only to having a teenager. Go ahead, Mycroft, he thought. You’re no worse than when she was twelve. It wasn’t the silence that bothered him; it was the calm. The stalemate of being expected to sit still and quiet and not actually do.

“Is the incessant gaping bringing you satisfaction, Gregory?” Mycroft arched a brow but didn’t raise his eyes from the papers in front of him.

“Gaping?” Greg huffed. “At this point in time, your office isn’t quite enough to make me gawk you stolid toff.”

“Stolid? That’s a modish word, isn’t it?” Mycroft closed the report and interlaced his fingers, resting them primly on his desk. “If not gaping, what shall we call this?”

“I’m glaring,” Greg said crossly. “Because I would like to get back to work.”

“Sit,” Mycroft glanced at the chair on the opposite side of the desk.

Lestrade shook his head, not moving from the wall. “I’m not a dog.”

“I’m sorry?” Mycroft sat back in his chair.

“Sit. Stay. Fetch. Get in the car.” Greg smiled in a way that bared his teeth. “I’m not some Yard dog for you to order about. I can’t believe the years and money wasted on your public schooling didn’t teach you how to say please. Or thank you, for that matter.”

Mycroft gave a sigh that spoke volumes, but he managed to stop short of rolling his eyes. “Please, Gregory, do sit down.”

Lestrade smiled broadly, pleased with himself. “I think I will, Ta very much.” He settled into the chair, slouching on purpose to maximize his comfort and Mycroft’s irritation. This was fun; now he understood why Sherlock did it. “Now, before someone takes a shot at me or tries to blow me up again, I would like to know what’s going on. Please.”

Mycroft bristled. It irked him that one of the cars was gone, and the driver had been in his service for six years. Perhaps he was more irritated by the necessity of John’s sniper friend. Clearly Murray had proven his worth, but he belonged to Watson instead of Mycroft, and that was enough to disquiet him. “Where would you like me to start, Detective Inspector?”

“Let’s start with you calling me Greg and the fact that John is, apparently, not dead.” Lestrade straightened in his chair and leaned forward. “Because that seems to be one of the more pressing issues to me.”

“Strangely, it’s less pressing now that he’s here.” Mycroft eyed Lestrade for a moment. “Before we begin, I’d like to inform you that I’ve raised your clearance level. In return, I expect complete discretion.”

“Complete…” Lestrade clenched his jaw. “I’ve never once betrayed your family, Mycroft. Not when I met Sherlock. Not when I met you. Not with the first or second overdose. Not when I picked him up off the street when John left. And not when he called me instead of you. I may not be discrete in my choice of language, but do not question my sodding loyalty.”

The frown that flashed across Mycroft’s face lasted less than the blink of an eye, but Lestrade saw it for the microexpression it was. He’d hit a nerve. “Of course not. Sherlock is strangely capable of surrounding himself with loyal people.”

“Go ahead and say ‘peasants’ if it makes you feel better, Mycroft.”

A single laugh burst out of him. “My, we do have an attitude this evening.”

“Attitude? You dragged me away from a murder scene!”

“It’s grown awfully late to return.”

“There’s still a murder!”

“Which has been reassigned to DI Dimmock.”

“Dimmock?! This is my job!”

“I have a different job for you at present.”

“Oh you do, do you? Will it involve me wrangling your brother again? Or just sitting on my hands, knowing nothing, like a twat? Or maybe I should go out for pints with John, now that he isn’t dead! Or next time, maybe I’ll just duck and let the explosion hit you rather than saving your snooty arse, hm?” Lestrade stopped. Clamped his mouth shut sharply. He hadn’t meant to let himself get carried away, but fucking Holmeses…

Mycroft’s cheeks were tinged with the slightest flush. “My apologies. I did not realize we were such a burden to you.”

“Ugh!” Lestrade leapt up, the motion knocking the chair back a few inches on the floor. He planted his knuckles on Mycroft’s desk and leaned halfway across. “Listen to me very carefully, Mycroft. I have never done what I have done for your brother or for you because I was ordered to. I’ve done it of my own free will, because, God help me, I have a fondness for all of you. If that makes me fucked in the head, so be it. But right now, the only thing you need to do is repeat after me.” Greg glared, fixing his rather incensed stare with Mycroft’s curious one. “Greg, thank you for saving my life.”

The corner of Mycroft’s mouth quirked, and he shifted in his chair, straightening his waistcoat. “Greg,” he cleared his throat. “Thank you for saving my life.”

“You’re welcome!” Lestrade snarled back. Then he straightened, retrieved the chair, and sat down. Mycroft blinked at him, seeming to collect himself from the outburst. Greg snorted. And when Mycroft tilted his head curiously, Greg burst out laughing.

After a moment, Mycroft was no longer amused. “Are you quite finished?”

Lestrade controlled his laughter and cleared his throat. “Yeah. Yeah, sorry. I’m good.”

“I’m sure you are.”

Lestrade cleared his throat again and straightened in his chair. “Alright. Now. Tell me what the hell is going on.”

 

~o~

 

John knuckled his eyes. It was still dark out, but his body knew five am without the need for a clock. He sat up and dragged his mobile from the side table.

_I’m up for the day. Stand down. Get sleep. – Cpt_

He stood and stretched, cracking his neck from side to side and scratching the base of his skull. He glanced around the room with frown. This place was unchanging. With a sigh and shake of his head, he padded barefoot down to the kitchen. It was silent on the first floor, but then again, Sherlock was a night-owl and his door was firmly shut. John put on the kettle.

_I don’t want to go far, Sir. You sure you’re clear? – Mrr_

John snorted.

_Sleep ya paranoid twat. There’ll be five all over the shop now. – Cpt_

He made tea and toast, retrieved a file from his duffle, and settled at the table in the sitting room. He cleared space and spread out his papers. This was going to be a challenge. He took a sip of his tea and picked up a photo to glare at the same grainy image he’d seen a hundred times over. No face, not even a profile, just the back of a head, an unusual droop of the right shoulder, an estimated size. The corner of his mouth twitched so hard that his nose wrinkled and the expression vanished as quickly as it appeared. “Where are you hiding?”

It had been Moran in Manchester, of that, John was quite sure. High caliber rounds, ridiculous distances, variable scopes, cold efficiency when dealing with failure. John needed a face, a face to go with the outline, to go with the all the military reports. Definitely British, surely army, multiple tours of duty, Colonel by either proper rank or nickname earned from competence after discharge, if he actually was discharged… No actual Colonel Moran on file. Served under a different name, maybe his real name. Unofficial reams of paper that detailed Moran’s hits though. Tactical, clean, always head shots, always single shots, except for John. And now John and Sherlock. He didn’t expect to get as lucky again. He’d have to find Moran before Moran found him.

As sure as John was that Moran had shot at them in Manchester, he was equally convinced that the bomb wasn’t Moran’s work. It was too messy, too visible, too imprecise, and too much of a failure. Message, maybe? Someone he knew in London, sent to pave his way? No one could have known that Sherlock and John were already in London, that they were even in Baker Street, so it was meant for Mycroft. Hit Mycroft, draw Sherlock out? Draw everyone out? Using live fire to expose our priorities again. So they took a run at Mycroft and failed, where to next? Who else is there? Mrs. Hudson was away. Lestrade was with Mycroft. John was… dead. Teddy? Would Moran stay in Manchester long enough to go after him? Or would he be plotting how to get to Sherlock here? It wasn’t something John was willing to risk. They’d have to pick Teddy up today.

Ok, Teddy comes down to London. Mycroft and Lestrade stay out of sight. John and Sherlock… They do what? Pointedly ignore each other? Have a long heart to heart about the past two years? The past two years that were equally destructive for both of them? Sherlock should have known. It actually made John cross. He should have known, it shouldn’t have taken as long, it shouldn’t have been necessary, it never should have happened. No. Talking about it would be the singularly most stupid and painful idea yet. No. John would do some recon; Sherlock would stay in for the day… sulking. Decision made. Maybe Greg would come keep Sherlock company for a while.

The sounds of Sherlock waking distracted John from him thoughts. The snuff as he realized he was awake instead of asleep, the groan that accompanied the revelation that he actually slept longer than is decent for mere transport, the shuffle of sheets and duvet as he disentangled himself, the light knock of groggy knuckles against the door as he retrieved his dressing gown, and the light creak of the knob as Sherlock opened his door and padded out into the sitting room.

“John?” Sherlock pulled up short, his sleep addled expression giving way to surprise.

“Sherlock,” John bobbed his head and raised his cup of tea as a hello.

“I… I didn’t hear you come downstairs.” Sherlock’s brow furrowed. He always heard John’s movements. Bare feet next to the bed. The creaks on the stairs. The taps running. The kettle.

John’s eyebrows went up slowly. “No?”

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth flicked down in disapprovingly. “No.”

“Maybe you were actually asleep,” John offered wryly. If you’d actually slept like a normal human you wouldn’t be an insufferable prat all the time.

Sherlock scoffed. “Unlikely. I rarely sleep.”

“Neither do I.” John saw the twitch of Sherlock’s nose, whether in distaste or disbelief was unclear. No, Sherlock was not going to be amenable to anything today. “If you turn on the kettle, I’ll make you some tea.”

“I’m quite capable of making a cup of tea, John,” Sherlock snapped.

“Alright, calm down.” John held up his hands in concession. “I was just offering.” His voice dropped down into a mutter as he returned his attention to the files, “You used to like it when I made you tea.”

“Well two years changes a man!” Sherlock snarled. John pursed his lips and sucked in a breath through his nose. He tilted his chin up, picking a spot on the wall to glare at. Sherlock’s face went blank, but the slight flush continued to color his cheeks and his voice held the same sharp edge. “I may show little regard for my transport, but surely even you must be aware that neglecting sustenance for such a duration would certainly result in cessation of function in the most permanent of ways.”

John released the breath in a sigh and blinked a few times before interlacing his fingers and resting his elbows on the table. He pressed his lips together and tilted his head at Sherlock. “Really? I’d never fathomed.”

“Then you’re a rubbish doctor,” he hissed.

“Mmn,” John nodded. “Clearly.” The silence stretched out between them; Sherlock’s stiff posture unwavering as John watched him evenly. If Sherlock was cross, he had every right to be and John wouldn’t fault him that, but there were one or two pressing matters that superseded their collective want to have it out. And he wanted to have it out. He wanted to clear the air. He wanted Sherlock to yell at him until he’s hoarse and red in the face and shaking from it. And John would push him, he would push all of Sherlock’s buttons just to get that rise from him. But… Not yet. Not now. Not with Moran lingering in the shadows, hovering over London like a darkened specter. No. Moran first. Two years of work for this, and John would get to breathe again, return to London properly, return from the dead, return to Sherlock. Two years… He could wait another few days.

Their standoff was broken by the ring of John’s mobile. He sighed and answered it, connecting the line without a word of greeting. Sherlock huffed, flung the edges of his dressing gown around himself and flopped onto the sofa in a ridiculous display of grace and brattishness. John hid his half smile in his movement into the kitchen. He tucked the phone between his ear and shoulder while he filled and started the kettle, listening half-heartedly to the voice on the other end.

“John, we need to talk.”

“Talking isn’t really on my agenda today,” John said grimly.

“I believe I’ve come across some information that you may find… constructive.”

“So tell me.” John was not much in the mood for this argument either.

“I suspect meeting would better serve our collective purpose.”

John sighed and braced himself with a fist on the workspace. “Do you now?”

“Though, I doubt it would be inconspicuous for another government vehicle to arrive on your doorstep.”

“Can’t spare the car?”

“Cannot afford the devoted employee.”

John shook his head slowly and moved to stand in the entry of the sitting room, eying Sherlock cautiously. “So I should drive then?”

“We should convene to coordinate our resources, Captain.”

When Sherlock spoke in that low purring voice, John would react instantly with a warm rush in his chest. When Mycroft did the same, John felt his skin crawl. “Give me an hour. I just sent Murray to get some rest.”

“Will the mountain come to Mohammed, then?”

“If I’m the mountain then I insist,” John said flatly.

“Very well.” Somehow Mycroft used the two words to convey just how put-upon the entire situation made him feel. “Oh and, John?”

He grunted.

“Make sure there’s a spare seat in your car, I’m sending someone with you to Baker Street.”

“Of course you are.” John disconnected the line. “Get dressed, Sherlock.”

Sherlock rolled, craning his neck to glare at John from over a shoulder. Couldn’t be arsed to sit up. “Whatever for?”

John’s smile was not warm, it was not soft, and it wasn’t pleased. “We have errands to run.”

 

~o~

 

_John crossed his arms and leaned his head back against the seat. No one could really sleep on these things, but just closing his eyes for a moment was more rest than he’d seen in weeks. “What’ll you do when we get back?”_

_“Sir?” Murray glanced over from where he’d disassembled his rifle to scrub the grit out of the pieces._

_“When we land in London, Bill. What do you want to do?” John kept his eyes closed, listening to the churning of the engines._

_“Whatever you order me to do, Captain.”_

_John snorted. “And if I order you to take a day off?”_

_“What’s a day off?” Murray grinned wryly._

_John blinked his eyes open with a sigh and turned his face toward the man. “Bill, I’m going to need to take care of a thing or two before we get down to the grunt work again. You should see your family or something.”_

_“Family?” Murray smiled innocently._

_John grunted and scrubbed a palm over his face. “Don’t be an ass.”_

_“You need me to disappear for a day, I can do that. I won’t like it, but I can do it.”_

_“Bill,” John said frankly. “This… This life debt you have concocted in your head, you know it’s not something I’d ever hold you to.”_

_“Life debt,” Murray scoffed. “Maybe I just like watching your arse through my scope.”_

_“Bill,” John groaned. “You saved my life.”_

_“I put you in the hospital.”_

_“You dragged me out of a live war zone.”_

_“You only had to be dragged, because I got distracted!” Murray hissed._

_“By my arse?” John offered with a huff._

_Murray frowned. “Captain, you know damn well that whole thing was my fault. I, we, the whole division would have followed you into hell. And there is nothing I can ever do to make that right again.”_

_“It was war; it’s not something that can be made right.”_

_“I promised them.”_

_John sighed. “Fine. Then Bill, I need you to promise me something. I can’t… When this thing is done, your debt is repaid, yeah?”_

_“Maybe.”_

_“Not maybe,” John fixed him with a glare. “There aren’t many of us left here, Murray. I can’t bear another friend in the ground. And I certainly can’t live with myself it it’s me that put you there. So this, this mission, it’s the last one. Then you go back to nursing or whatever you want, you go back to being a civilian, you find a nice lady nurse and you settle down and make baby nurses.”_

_Murray chuckled. “Baby nurses, Captain?”_

_“I’m dead serious, Bill. This makes us square.”_

_Murray leaned back and gazed up at the metal piping on the roof of the cabin. “And we can what? Be friends? Go for a pint every month? Talk about the good old times? Compare scars and war stories with the other old vets?”_

_John pinched the bridge of his nose and released a heavy breath. “If that’s what it has to be, then yes. I’ll not have anyone follow me into hell again.”_

_“Good luck shaking me.”_

_“Bill,” John warned. “I need you to promise. This is it. Then you and I are square.”_

_“Yes, Sir,” Murray muttered._

_John clenched his jaw and glared. “Bill.”_

_Murray turned and regarded him sadly. “Fine. Yes. John, this makes us square.”_

_“And you’ll stop trying to put yourself between me and a bullet?”_

_Murray rolled his eyes and smirked. “You bet your arse.”_

 

~o~

 

“Coffee?”

Lestrade grunted and propped himself up on an elbow, scrubbing at his scalp then his face and jaw before he felt awake enough to speak. “What time is it?”

“Just gone seven.”

He squinted at Mycroft, everything looking neatly pressed and freshly ironed as he swung his legs over the side of the couch. “Do you sleep at all?”

Mycroft arched a brow and handed the mug of coffee to Lestrade. “I certainly couldn’t let your snoring distract me from my work all evening, Gregory.”

Lestrade smirked as he accepted the mug. “I’d hate to think there’ll be an uncontrolled coup in Myanmar because of me.”

“Certainly not.” Mycroft settled in his desk chair and removed an imaginary piece of lint from the polished surface. “My private restroom is through that door,” he gestured with the slightest tilt of his head. “John Watson agrees with me that we must meet to compose some semblance of a strategy going forward. They should be here within the hour. Also, I’ve arranged a brief tête-à-tête with another public servant that I think you’d enjoy.”

Greg swallowed the large sip of coffee he’d just taken. John Watson… That still felt strange to hear. Too fucking early in the morning… “Enjoy?”

“I’m expecting them presently, so if you’d please.” Mycroft gestured to the loo again.

“Do I have something on my face then?” Greg asked wryly. Mycroft gave him the look that headmasters reserve for delinquent offenders. “Alright, alright,” Greg set the mug down on the table and made his way into the bathroom. Somehow, he wasn’t surprised to find new everythings available for his use. The thought of having a proper wash in the well apportioned shower was tempting, but Greg wrinkled his nose at the idea of having to put his now two days dirty suit back on. He actually wondered if he should be surprised that Mycroft hadn’t thought to send some messenger to collect fresh clothes from Greg’s pathetic little flat. No. Mycroft Holmes was not that considerate. His omnipotence seemed to end at the niceties beyond polite society.

Lestrade did take his time, brushed his teeth, washed his face, had a shave. And when he emerged a few minutes later, he actually felt awake enough to deal with whatever was going to ruin another one of his boring days. “Not that the Met would ever really consider it, but how much did that thing set you back, Mycroft?”

Mycroft looked up from his desk, setting his coffee cup neatly in its saucer. Of course he’d be drinking from something used to entertain foreign heads of state. He arched a single brow, a ghost of a smile on his lips. “I could ask, Detective Inspector. But perhaps the funds would be better spent acquiring another DC for your unit? Perhaps even this one?”

Lestrade had certainly noticed the other man, sitting in the chair opposite Mycroft, but he hadn’t paid attention until the question had escaped his big fat mouth. But now he was fixated on the ruddy brown hair. “Teddy?”

The young man turned as he stool and gave a tired smile, “Hey Uncle Greg.”

Teddy looked rumpled, exhausted, and as two day stale as Greg felt. Lestrade smiled anyway and gave him a bone-crushing hug. “How are ya, Runt?”

Teddy gave a rueful laugh. “Over worked and under paid. Think I’ll get some overtime for this?”

Greg laughed. “Welcome to London.”

 

~o~

 

Sherlock knew he should have just gone back for a sulk. He had slept out of necessity, but his mind had refused to cooperate with his body and insisted on rehashing, replaying, reviewing, and repeating every agonizing memory of John’s, now realized concocted, death. For the entire night. Sherlock was cross. Vexed really. For all he wanted to focus all of the fractious energy at John, that John had clearly struggled with the time away had him holding his tongue. And the scars… He glanced miserably at the lines on his wrist, his mind clearly demarcating self-inflicted as opposed to those that ran down John’s back: torture.

That would be the word for the day, for the past twenty-four hours and the impending daylight hours: torture. This head ached for all the questions, the confusion, the doubt. His ongoing mental remonstrations. He should have known. He should have deduced. He should have… observed. Two years of mourning and self-flagellation avoided by simply observing rather than just seeing. John had told him. John had left him a note. John had tried. Shot, beaten, and half a world away, and John Watson had come to find him in Manchester, come to save him. Damn him.

Coffee… He needed stimulation. No, he needed a stimulant. Needed his body to thrum at the speed of his brain or it would drive him to the brink. Caffeine… Nicotine… No. No patches. He doubted John would approve of him stepping out for a smoke. Cocaine… Sherlock closed his eyes wistfully for a moment. No. Caffeine. It would have to be caffeine.

With an exhausted huff, Sherlock pushed off of his bed and strode out into the sitting room. “John?” What was John doing up? Why was he up? It was early. John was normally asleep until seven. He was loud. He would come stiffly down the stairs and rattle the kettle. Make tea or coffee… He had made tea. He had made tea and was greeting Sherlock with a tea salute. And Toast. John was up and working in the sitting room and Sherlock hadn’t noticed. This was not acceptable. Caffeine. Needed to clear his head. “I… I didn’t hear you come downstairs.”

“No?” John’s expression was… surprise? Disapproval? Judgment, raised brows of chastisement.

Sherlock decided to disagree with this new level of castigation from John. Petulant was one way to describe it, but he preferred disapproval. “No.”

“Maybe you were actually asleep.”

Maybe YOU were actually asleep. I was… Sherlock berated himself. Not for the few hours he was in REM, but for the two years of unknowing. The failure. It brought a ferocity to the thoughts tumbling around in his head, a darkened squall of acerbity that eroded at his careful balance. “Unlikely. I rarely sleep.”

“Neither do I.”

No. Of course not. People in states of hypervigilance, people with a cicatrix decorating their back, people with a background of PTSD wouldn’t be expected to sleep, not restful sleep. Sherlock tried to tamp down an all out frown. John Watson injured, John Watson’s light dulled brought Sherlock physical pain, a distress that rose from his spine and stomach to lance through his limbs. It was insufferable.

“If you turn on the kettle, I’ll make you some tea.”

A single blow to his solar plexus. Slogging through what Sherlock knew was a torturous two years, John Watson dared to sit there and try to mind him. Try to take care of him. It was more than insufferable; it was impossible. It was unacceptable. Unspeakable. Breathlessly agonizing. “I’m quite capable of making a cup of tea, John,” Sherlock snapped.

And then contrition, “Alright, calm down. I was just offering.” Knife in the gut. “You used to like it when I made you tea.” Uppercut to the jaw.

Sherlock’s brain screamed objections so loud that he nearly clamped his hands over his ears. “Well two years changes a man!” And there it was. The truth of it laid bare. Sherlock was not the same. John was not the same. They were not the same. They never could be the same. And the outburst slapped across John’s cheek, and he shut down. Sherlock felt himself imploding. Doubling over and curling into a small, tight ball of anguish that he firmly locked into the cellar of his mind. Blankness, calm, indifference. “I may show little regard for my transport, but surely even you must be aware that neglecting sustenance for such a duration would certainly result in cessation of function in the most permanent of ways.”

Humor, that would John’s response. He’d try to deflect with sarcasm or levity. “Really? I’d never fathomed.”

Sherlock couldn’t breathe. He would end the conversation. Sulk to lick his wounds in a retreat from the pleasantry of something familiar that was so long absent. “Then you’re a rubbish doctor,” he hissed.

“Mmn,” John nodded. “Clearly.”

Silence. Silence and a glare. Sherlock had tried to stare John down before, but it rarely worked. John would meet his agitated energy and redirect it. Intellectual Judo. None of his blows found their mark and any altercations left Sherlock buzzing with impotent enmity until he could find the true source of his infuriation. And now John just watched him, unperturbed, calm, even, unwilling to engage in this battle. And Sherlock needed it. He needed the war, the words, the argument to temper the self-directed violence in his head.

John’s mobile rang. The silent war was broken by… Mycroft. Sherlock huffed and stomped to the couch, flopping gracefully onto the leather surface. But the movement was lost on John, who’d retreated to the kitchen. Ugh, unbearable. And the kettle was on. Deplorable. Sherlock closed his eyes and listened to John’s side of the conversation.

“Talking isn’t really on my agenda today.” Pause. “So tell me.” Mycroft was being deliberately obtuse. “Do you now?” John doesn’t approve. Mycroft is pushing his buttons. “Can’t spare the car?” Sarcastic deflection. Cutting. “So I should drive then?” John was closer, not in the kitchen any more. “Give me an hour. I just sent Murray to get some rest.” Considerate, rational, blunt. “If I’m the mountain then I insist.” Oh, that pissed him off. Sherlock cautiously hid his amusement from his face. Mycroft was so antagonistic and there was an amazing amount of pleasure derived from John rubbing Mycroft the wrong way. John grunted. He was beyond actually talking. Interesting. “Of course you are.” He hung up. Look at that: John Watson getting the last word. “Get dressed, Sherlock.”

What? Ugh, things had changed. John kowtowing to Mycroft. He rolled over his shoulder to glare at John. “Whatever for?”

John had that grin; his flinty, borderline unhinged smile that only promised something perilous. “We have errands to run.”

Oh? Oh. Oh! Best not to argue with John when he’s about to do something awful to Mycroft. Sherlock sat up quickly and tangled his fingers into his hair for a moment, upsetting the slim order that had existed. “Formal or casual?”

John smirked. “Keep your tops and tails in your closet. I’d hate to see what your version of formal is.”

Sherlock huffed and crossed the room, raising a brow at John’s smirk as he passed. “What about my monocle?” He went out of his way to expedite his morning routine, straightening the lie of his jacket as he returned to the sitting room. “Where?”

John straightened from the table where he’d just finished replacing his files in his duffle. “Office.”

He heaved a sigh. “Dull.”

John’s mouth went flat. “Get in the car.”

Sherlock donned his scarf and coat. Armor on. John tilted his head to the side in a silent ‘you first’ motion. Of course. Sherlock started down the stairs. Of course, John would follow Sherlock. John always followed Sherlock. Until he didn’t. But captains can lead, should lead, are leaders before they gain such a title, and deep down, Sherlock had always known it was something John was capable of, something he’d done in the past. It was just something Sherlock didn’t want to believe John needed to do again. At least John had his gun.

Sherlock paused, his hand on the car door. “John?”

John drew up from where he was settling in the driver’s seat. “What? Oh. Get in.” He grinned. It was one of the dangerous grins, but pleasant, but deadly. “Sherlock,” he tipped his head at the man stretched out lazily across the rear bench seat. “Meet Bill Murray. Bill, Sherlock Holmes.”

Sherlock slid into the passenger bucket seat and ran his eyes shrewdly over Bill Murray. Just over six feet, brown hair – ordinary, hazel eyes – unusually amber, solid build. Lieutenant, clearly. Sniper training. Dressed in khaki cargo pants that were built for function, though wouldn’t stand out in the middle of a city, at least, not as much as the pistol visible in a drop leg holster – easy and rapid access on his right thigh and a second clip just above it. Efficient. He wore a thick Kevlar vest over top an irritatingly normal blue button down shirt. Comfort, ease of movement, blending. His hair was shaggy, clearly been grown out from a tight military cut and Sherlock suspected that if he gave closer inspection, it’d be equally unshorn as John’s. No. Don’t think about that. And Bill Murray extended his hand to Sherlock.

Firm grip. Calluses from the bite of numerous firearms. Steady hands; no, steady constitution, hands normal. Easy charm. Intelligent for a solider. Loyal. John Watson loyal. No, loyal to John Watson. “Mr. Holmes.” Formal greeting, but not unfriendly.

“Lieutenant Murray.” Sherlock nodded. No capricious smile; that would be rude. This is the man that saved John Watson. This is the man that brought him home to London before… And this is the man John Watson chose to watch his back. Not Sherlock, Bill Murray. No. Unfair. This is the man John Watson chose to watch them both, to guard them in their sleep. “I hear you are the one responsible for my brother’s continued existence.”

Murray shrugged. “Shame about the car. It looked comfortable.”

“Oh, I’m not thanking you. Mycroft is insufferable.”

John huffed as he started the car. “Behave.”

Sherlock’s mouth twitched. He liked that sound coming from John. He liked when he was the one that drew it out of him. “You’ll understand when you meet him,” he shot over his shoulder as they pulled out of the garage.

Murray inspected his nails idly. “I’m really only authorized to shoot people threatening your safety, Mr. Holmes.”

“What if I’m dying of boredom?”

Murray chuckled, so did John. “I dunno,” Murray craned his neck to be seen in the rearview mirror. “Captain?” Yes, Sherlock could tolerate this man.

John sighed extravagantly. “No. Even then, you’re not allowed to kill Mycroft. I’d hate to think of the political fall out.”

John Watson, always pragmatic. Sherlock groaned, “Dull.”

 

~o~

 

Lestrade still did a double take when John Watson strode into Mycroft’s office. Not dead… Alive, very much so. Was he cross at John for what he did? Yeah, matter of fact, he was. Shitty thing to do to Sherlock, regardless of the reasons. And if he’d made any effort to keep tabs on Sherlock since he’d left, well clearly he didn’t. All that progress, everything that had grounded Sherlock since John Watson had appeared in his life had evaporated as quickly. Manic. That’s what it was. But he couldn’t fully begrudge John. Hell, he’d up and saved his life just last night. And there was something different about him too. He was… bolder? No. Sterner. Greg had always known John was made of sturdier stuff than most, but that was out now, an external show of how he’d survived in the army.

John gave Mycroft a curt nod, but extended a hand to Lestrade. “Greg. Alright?”

Lestrade forced a smile. “Getting there. This is my nephew, Teddy.” He clapped a hand on Teddy’s back. “He’s been…”

John smiled and shook Teddy’s hand as well. “Bending over backwards to keep an eye on Sherlock, I’ve heard.”

Teddy shrugged. “Can’t say I’ve been bored.”

Sherlock snorted as he came in the room. “Manchester is far less stimulating than London, Theodore. The tedium of common criminals will affect you eventually.”

Teddy smiled broadly. “Sherlock, you daft arse.”

Greg was glad to see an honest smile on Sherlock’s face. It was small and subtle, but it was honest. He stood aside as Teddy and Sherlock shook hands, glancing up at the door as a third man entered. Also military. Greg shook his head, this was way beyond his pay-grade.

Mycroft cocked his head at the final man. “Is this your friend, John?”

John turned sharply, “Bill Murray, as you know, this is Mycroft Holmes.”

Murray gave a polite nod. “I’m sorry about your driver.”

“Quite.” Mycroft managed to scowl at the entire room before indicating that they should take a seat around his desk and the table that perfectly fitted against his desk. It made it look as though he were sitting at the head of the table in the war room. And before everyone was even seated in a chair, a woman with impossibly high heels clicked into the room with a tea tray. Surreal was all Greg could think. “Pleasantries done, there are a few pressing issues we need to discuss.”

About five minutes in and Greg knew he was out of his depth. John had outlined his suspicions about the sniper, Moriarty’s sniper, being in London. Teddy produced the files from Manchester and Sherlock and John had walked them through the incident there. Murray watched and listened and didn’t interrupt, he looked like he was absorbing. Lestrade scratched the back of his head as he stared at the photos; John did that? John Watson did that? Sure he’d shot a man for Sherlock, but Sherlock’s life had been… Sherlock had been in danger. Danger made John Watson deadly. And that, Greg decided, was terrifying.

So then what? They needed to find this guy, this sniper, this Moran. And so far, the gist of the plan, from what Greg understood, had to do with using Sherlock to lure him out? “No, that’s insane.” That’s suicidal, that’s… Why was everyone staring? Shit, he’d said that out loud. He cleared his throat and rubbed his jaw, shifting uncomfortable under Mycroft’s curious stare. “I mean… He had no qualms blowing up a car in the middle of London. Why? … Why would we give him the chance for more destruction? That is, assuming that killing Sherlock is his endgame.”

John shook his head. “That wasn’t Moran. Maybe Moran’s order, but not actually his actions.”

“Agreed,” Sherlock murmured. “Too… sloppy.”

“This is our chance to draw him out. Confront him on our terms,” John continued. “He knows there were people looking for him, but he thinks I’m dead. We have a few advantages.”

“It beats the hell out of waiting,” Teddy murmured.

“Mycroft?” Greg pleaded.

Mycroft looked contemplative, but his mind was made up. “And what would you suggest, Detective Inspector? What is your elegant solution?”

“I…” Lestrade frowned. He didn’t have another solution. “I feel like if I had a bit more time… Why do I feel like I’m the only voice of reason here?”

“How long do you suspect my brother would remain discretely hidden at Baker Street?” Mycroft arched a brow.

Ok. Point. Sherlock was not discrete. Nor would he be satisfied to just stay in Baker Street. They were on borrowed time. Greg sighed and shrugged. “And Teddy?”

Mycroft steepled his fingers and leaned forward on the desk. “Baker Street. The flat has been… fortified.”

“Safer than Manchester,” Teddy muttered.

“And… Me?” Greg asked. “I do what?”

“Public pressure,” John offered. “It has to appear that normal channels are being utilized as well.”

“So... I just do my job?”

“Were you not just complaining that we were keeping you from it, Detective Inspector?” Mycroft cut in.

Son of a bitch. God dammed Holmeses.

 

~o~

 

John drove the four of them back to Baker Street. Sherlock rode shotgun, remaining quiet, contemplative. Teddy and Murray were sharing the back bench seat, both dozing. Teddy, having spent the night in a car driving back from Manchester, and Murray having been on watch, it seemed only fair to let them a small moment of rest. John, however, was not still. He shifted repeatedly in the seat, giving inordinate amount of attention to the wing mirrors.

“John?” Sherlock murmured. “If you twitch again, I might glue you to that seat.”

John chuckled uncomfortably. “No superglue in the car. Nice try though.”

“What’s wrong?”

John glanced at him and frowned for a fraction of a second. “Nothing.”

“Liar.”

“Berk.”

“Please,” Sherlock snorted.

John cleared his throat. “Greg was right. This is a terrible idea.”

“Terrible, no. As plans go, we’ve had worse.”

“There are too many things that could go wrong.”

Sherlock huffed. “Mycroft will plan for every eventuality.”

“He was supposed to the first time,” John muttered. Sherlock’s gaze narrowed, studying John’s profile for a moment. John clenched his jaw. “You weren’t supposed to…” He heaved out a breath through his nose. “He could have told me that you didn’t, that you weren’t…” John pinched the bridge of his nose with a frown. After a moment, he spared Sherlock another glance. “You know that I’m not leaving again, yeah?”

Sherlock’s face twitched. “Obviously.”

“You’re the priority here, Sherlock. Once Moran is…” John stopped short of saying killed, but he thought it. “I want you to be able to get back to your life.”

Sherlock gave him a pained smile. “Yes…”

John swallowed. Sherlock wasn’t understanding. Then again, John was doing a piss poor job of explaining. Why didn’t he read the fucking note? Sod this, he pulled into the underground garage. “Lads,” he called over his shoulder, then exited the vehicle to let them into the downstairs flat. Trudging up the stairs, John filed in behind Teddy and Bill, Sherlock following behind him. They were all tired. They all needed rest. They all needed to get through this, and life could go back to normal.

It smelled like fresh air. Fresh rain. The flat felt the tiniest bit damp. Not an evening damp, but a rain damp. John froze on the landing, his hand on the door to the sitting room. Why did it feel damp? The air moved, a breeze crossing through the kitchen, stirring the edges of Murray’s shaggy hair. Why was there a draft? John turned back, set a hand on Sherlock’s chest. “No, wait.” He tilted his head, listening. “Murray?”

Murray edged into the kitchen, eying the room for something out of place. “Looks normal, Captain,” he whispered.

Teddy followed, peaking first around the corner, then stepping past the doorframe. He checked the front as Murray looked to the back. “Just the open window, is all,” Teddy bobbed his head toward the street.

Sherlock’s brow furrowed, “Who opened a window?”

Window? No one would have left the window open. The windows… they’re bullet proof…John’s eyes went dark as they shot first toward Sherlock then into the space of the kitchen where both Murray and Teddy were in the line of sight of the window. It was wrong. John knew it just before the blow came and there was nothing he could do to stop it. “Murray!” John’s movements were economical. Both hands planted on Sherlock’s chest and John shoved, knocking Sherlock into the corner by the closed door and launching himself toward the kitchen.

The quiet of the room was eerie in the movement that followed. Murray’s head snapped back, a spitting sound accompanying the motion as a burst of red painted the tiles and cupboards. Fuck! As Murray crumpled, John dropped onto his shoulder, rolling and rotating onto the tiles to sweep his foot out and knock Teddy to the ground. Teddy made a sound of protest first, a shout of horror second as John grabbed his arm and hauled him behind the door.

John was on his feet in the blink of an eye, pulling Teddy to his feet, then Sherlock. He gave Teddy a shove toward the stairs as a metallic tinkle sounded from the sitting room. “Go!” he snapped, dragging Sherlock up as well. They were under attack… The flat was no longer safe. The metallic sound morphed into a rolling can. Flash-bang? Grenade? He didn’t wait to find out. They were halfway down the stairs when the Flash-bang detonated. The sound was deafening, but they were out of range of the blinding flash and vertigo of the concussive wave. John didn’t stumble. He grabbed Sherlock’s forearm and pulled, hauling him the last few feet to the ground floor. “Keep going!” John barked. Out. They needed to get out!

Teddy stumbled against the door of the basement flat, pulling it open and throwing himself down those stairs as well. He reached the door to the underground garage and waited for John and Sherlock to join him. “John, the door!”

Oh, Murray… John reached the doors with Sherlock at his back. “Sherlock, we have to get you to the alternate safehouse.”

“John,” Sherlock objected.

“It’s not safe anymore, Sherlock,” Teddy cried.

John tossed the keys of the Land Rover to Teddy, rounding on Sherlock and grabbing him by the lapels of his jacket. “Sherlock, I have just lost one of the only friends I have in this world. I will NOT lose the other one.” He gave him a shake for good measure. They had to go! The flat was under attack. They were being driven out… Teddy opened the door to the garage, heading for the car and John half-turned. They were being driven out. Driven.“No! Wait!” John released Sherlock’s jacket and reached for Teddy.

Teddy was already in the garage. John took two steps, half in, half out; and Sherlock made to follow. No. Not out. They were being driven out. Driven into the open. It wasn’t the flat; it was the street that was a danger. Teddy stumbled, tripped over something. A small hiss came from the space behind the car. “John!” Sherlock reached for him.

“Stay!” John bellowed. He shoved, forcing Sherlock back into the flat as he hit the lockdown button. The door swung shut as the bolts locked into place. John glared at Sherlock through the window of the door. “Mycroft! Get Mycroft!”

“John!” Sherlock pounded on the door. He couldn’t open it. Not with the lockdown initiated. He’d be in that room for minutes at least, if not hours. The garage started to fill with smoke. “JOHN!”

John slammed his fist into the door once and pointed, “GO!” Sherlock was priority one. Sherlock would be safe, and John could think about the collateral. And he turned into the quickly filling garage. “Teddy?!” He coughed; the smoke was overly acrid, smoke bomb of sorts. “Teddy!” John dropped to a crouch, trying to get beneath the smoke. He heard footfalls and dropped lower, finding the car, putting it at his back as he edged around it. He shouldn’t have given Teddy the keys, the door opener was inside the rover. Fuck! Shit. Fuck. Bugger. John followed the line of the vehicle, making his way to the rear bumper. Footfalls, closer now. John squinted, blinking rapidly, trying to see through the thickness. Then he heard it, the shuffle of fabric on fabric. John’s head swung around in time to see the fist just before it connected with his face. And everything went black.


	6. Part VI: A Kingdom Destroyed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU - reversing the roles from the fall; John falls, Sherlock is left. Moran makes his move.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... I'm really earn my tags now... I like to push my limits in writing, and I've taken this to a really dark place. You have been warned. Some of the violence is implied, some of it is point blank... But if you are only looking for fluff, I would say you're not going to keep enjoying this. Then again, it does say major character death, so I won't be held completely accountable. I'll add any tw's that people feel are needed:
> 
> tw: torture  
> tw: violence  
> tw: blood
> 
> Apologies for the long wait. It was... challenging to polish this to something I liked (and hated). But I hope you like this one.
> 
> As with the last chapter: all of the sequences in italics are flashbacks. And as always, thank you to Sociy for the prompt that started this and thank you to Reichy, my beta buns.
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> **“Anger may in time change to gladness; vexation may be succeeded by content. But a kingdom that has once been destroyed can never come again into being; nor can the dead ever be brought back to life.”**  
>  ~ Sun Tzu, The Art of War

Mycroft was mid sip when his phone began to vibrate. His brow twitched, but he replaced the teacup in the saucer and retrieved his phone. It only took a glance at the screen and he was in motion. The cup and saucer were placed crisply on the desk. The phone was dialed, it connected, “Yes, Charlie Four. Immediately.” He stood and met his assistant halfway to the door. She looked calm, composed, as if he’d summoned her to dictate a letter, but her breathing was a touch too fast for normal. “Anthea, a car. Now.”

Lestrade glanced up from the files Teddy had relinquished. Fresh detective eyes, or something like that. “What’s wrong?”

Mycroft made an expression that looked similar to someone trying to smile around lemon in his mouth. “The alarm at Baker Street has been tripped.”

“Alarm? They must only have gotten back. Maybe…”

“The panic alarm, Detective Inspector. It must be activated. It is deliberate.”

Greg was on his feet, jacket in hand before Mycroft finished his statement. “Let’s go.”

Mycroft nodded, gripping the handle of his umbrella a little too tightly, standing with his back just a little too straight. This is how the Holmeses dealt with stress: tension that was palpable. They were in a car, pulling out into traffic before Mycroft spoke again. “If you wouldn’t mind, Detective Inspector, having one or two of your cars meeting us at Baker Street? I suspect they may be needed.”

Greg looked at him blankly for a moment. Needed? As in… As in dead body needed? “Uh, yeah. Sure.”

“People of discretion, if you please.”

Lestrade gave Mycroft a look of dread. “That bad?” Mycroft only tilted his head, not an answer in any way. Greg cleared his throat. “Yeah.” He made a hushed call. Donovan, she would understand. And she could run the team in his absence. He somehow suspected he wouldn’t be staying long enough to see it back to the yard.

 

~o~

 

_John Watson knew pain. His entire life had been one long study in pain. His childhood bounced between the controlled physical pain of rucking into a failed scrum, knocking into the bigger lads, throwing an elbow and taking a punch, hurdling across a pitch in an ankle-tap gone wrong and the chaotic, unpredictable bite of an alcohol fueled lashing, always where the marks wouldn’t show, always as distraction from his sister, from his mother._

_His adolescence was painted with the emotional pain of loss: his arguably horrid, but nonetheless relevant father; his grandfather, now that was agony; his sister, first to uni then to alcohol; his mother, maybe lost long before she was actually gone. His late teens and early twenties found the art of examining the pain of others, first was recognizing and knowing the sickness of it, debatably a weak second was repairing it; much easier to do for others._

_His late twenties were life lessons in constant discomfort of service, to Queen and Country, to the injured and dying, to the danger and disorder, and fever and aggression until a single lucky shot brought him down in a spasm of destruction and disease. Pain was clawing his way back to England, fighting his way up from the stupor and lethargy of invalidity, limping around London on a crutch until he stumbled into Sherlock Holmes. Anguish was leaving that life he’d loved._

_This—whatever they thought they were doing now—was a drop in the bucket, a piss in the ocean. Insignificant in the larger picture. And after a lifetime of pain, John Watson wore dolor like armor. The bamboo hurt less than a leather belt and even though it had been a couple of decades, his back was far tougher than the tops of his thighs had ever been. They could threaten his hands, take a finger, but loss was a part of his life and he’d happily give a few digits for the return trip to London. There was nothing they could teach him about drowning that Harry hadn’t demonstrated time and time again. Hypoxia from water was always less disturbing than suffocating loneliness._

_And then they’d actually attacked his shoulder, the gnarled, scarred, twice-repaired mess that he couldn’t be arsed with. There wasn’t even shrapnel left in it. They could dig for hours and only make him flinch at the idea that Mike would be cross that his handy work had been upset._

_It was a mistake to think that he didn’t know pain. It was worse to think that he liked it. His life was a study of control, each blow adding fuel to the fire that constantly burned at the center of his being. He hid the inferno behind a caring pair of hands and woolen jumpers, with carefully metered yelling matches and chases. Anyone foolish enough to strip those away would find themselves faced with the scorching truth of who John Watson really was—a pyre of wrath._

_When Bill Murray finally found him, John Watson was laughing. A dark, disturbing sound. He stopped laughing only to smile as he re-set the MCP and PIP joints in his right index finger. He could shoot as well with his left hand, but he smiled wider at the discomfort in his hand as he used his broken trigger finger to offer his own instruction on pain. And John Watson was a shockingly patient teacher._

 

John sputtered at the face full of freezing water. The dousing was enough to pull him back to consciousness and remind him of the predicament they were in. They… Teddy? Was on the floor next to him. Where? Floor: concrete, clean, smell of must somehow familiar. Arched, low ceilings, brick? Definitely London. Himself?

Bound hands were nothing. The warm trickle of blood tracing down his cheek was pedestrian. And the extended index finger on the thug in charge as he singled out John with a sneering, “That one first,” was too tempting to leave alone. They would think he was suffering, that they were in control, but John Watson knew better. He knew pain. And he was, if nothing else, an exquisitely controlled and patient man.

 

~o~

 

Lestrade didn’t wait for Mycroft. There were business issues to attend to, pawns to move, but with one dead, he couldn’t wait for civility. The house had been cleared of explosives and combatants by a squad of people that Greg suspected were somehow higher up than MI-5, but he was assured they’d be gone before his people were on scene. Mycroft murmured into his phone in the entryway to Mrs. Hudson’s flat, his body rigid with cold fury. When had he become a master of Holmesian body language? Lestrade shook off the horrible sensation that Mycroft Holmes was not a person that dabbled in impotent rage, and the outcome of inciting his wrath was possibly the last thing someone would ever do. With a bracing sigh, Lestrade steeled his shoulders and hurried up the stairs to Sherlock’s flat. Action not contemplation; he could worry about the consequences later.

The body on the floor in the kitchen was Murray. Not Sherlock. Not Teddy. Not John. Murray. Dead. He tried to feel guilty at his relief, but couldn’t muster it. The call of upstairs clear filtered into his consciousness. Thank God. Then downstairs. He passed Mrs. Hudson’s flat and headed to the basement, catching Mycroft’s hissed demand for all of the CCTV footage. At the foot of the stairs, he drew up short with a sigh that bridged the space between relief and horror.

Sherlock was in the corner of the empty room, knees drawn up to his chest, forehead on his knees, fingers tangled in his hair. “Sherlock?” Lestrade asked gently, dropping onto his hunkers to rest a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. “Alright?” Sherlock’s head tipped up, a lost expression of panic and pain dropped years from his face and Lestrade felt a fierce wave of protectiveness rush through him. “Sherlock, are you hurt?” Of course he wasn’t hurt. Mycroft’s men wouldn’t have left him on the floor hurt. But he needed to hear it from Sherlock.

“They took him,” Sherlock whispered, wincing and twisting his fingers back into his curls. He shuddered and focused on his shoes. “John’s gone.”

“Teddy?”

Sherlock made a pained noise and tucked his arms around his head, his voice rushing out in manic pace. “They have him. They have John. They have Teddy. They killed Murray. And John left! He went after Teddy! He left me!” Sherlock wrapped his arms around himself and shuddered. “Stupid! They’re gonna kill him!”

Greg swallowed and set a second hand on Sherlock’s shoulders, anchoring him in the room. “You’re not injured. Sherlock, tell me you’re not hurt.”

“No,” Sherlock said quietly even as his face twisted into a grimace.

“Up,” Lestrade stood and offered a hand. Sherlock looked at it carefully, warily for a moment before accepting it and allowing himself to be pulled to his feet. Greg kept a firm hand on Sherlock’s back, guiding him up from the basement into Mrs. Hudson’s flat. He let Sherlock drop onto the sofa and retrieved a cup of tea from the kitchen, shaking his head at Mycroft. No, better he talk to Sherlock without him hovering.

Greg returned to the sitting room, pulling a face at the amount of needlepoint, knitting, and frill about the place. He set the tea in Sherlock’s hands and sat on the table to face him. “Sherlock,” he started carefully. “I need you to walk me through what happened.”

“I’m not a child!” Sherlock snapped.

Lestrade didn’t flinch. “No.”

Sherlock’s shoulders sagged. “I’m sorry. I…” He shook his head. “I can’t. I feel… This is useless. It’s my fault. I didn’t know. I didn’t see! It’s always been my fault. And now it’s broken! Broken and it’ll never be fixed!”

Greg watched as Sherlock moved rapidly through a series of words he never thought he’d hear. And rather than astonishment, Greg felt a heavy weight in his stomach. He set a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder and gave a firm squeeze. “Sherlock. We’ll get them back.”

Sherlock locked eyes with him; staring as if a deep enough examination would hold answers that Lestrade could never supply. “How?”

Lestrade huffed. “First, you’re going to tell me exactly what happened in more detail than I’d get from CCTV footage. And I know you can, because I’ve seen you do it before. Then we, the three of us, are going to meet with a team from what I can only assume is MI-5 and make a plan. And then, god help me, I don’t plan on making any arrests.”

Sherlock let the ghost of a smile cross his face. “No?”

“No.”

“How will we find them?”

Greg cleared his throat. “Your brother may have done something… Invasively protective.” Sherlock raised a brow sharply and Greg scratched the back of his neck uncomfortably. “John has a tracker.”

“They’ll destroy his phone immediately if they haven’t already.”

“Yeah,” Greg made a face. “It’s better hidden than that.”

 

~o~

 

John sat. He shifted his shoulders as much as possible, wiggled his toes in his boots, cracked his neck from one side to the other, and sat. He let the wall at his back support some of the weight of his spine, hold the back of his head, frame his shoulders, and he sat. He didn’t close his eyes; he could reach a state near sleep with his eyes open, trick from early in his medical career: sleeping anywhere. It wasn’t a dark, damp cell. No, there were clean brick and tiled walls, smooth and fresh concrete floors, fluorescent lights, silence. A cold cleanliness to the place. But not entirely dry. John let his breathing even out; slow, steady breaths. It smelled like something familiar.

If he was honest with himself, he was in pain. His face hurt, his jaw hurt, his left eye was swollen and sore, he could taste blood in his mouth, and he was damn sure his lip and nose had been bleeding at one point. Hard to tell now. His throat was raw from vomiting up all the water he’d damn near choked on. He was fucking cold and damp, and he wished for his jacket or a jumper or anything warmer than this tee shirt. His wrists were probably bleeding from the tight plastic edges that bound them at the small of his back, but his circulation was intact in his fingers. His shoulder ached. His scars ached. He was fairly sure one of his ribs was broken. Slow, steady breaths.

Nothing on its own would kill him. Collectively, the sum of his injuries, the pain of it all could shut him down. No, pain didn’t hold any sway over him. One breath at a time. Breath in; breath out. And panic. Panic would do it too. He knew how to break riot-ties, but what would be the point? Free his arms, but then he’s still stuck in this cell. Wherever this cell was. No, he had to be patient. Wait it out. Mycroft would… A very cold voice in the back of his mind suggested that Mycroft would leave him here to rot. That it would be the perfect resolution. They’d never discussed how to bring John back into the real world after this mission was completed; if he ever managed to complete it. No, no. He wouldn’t think like that. Mycroft would have use for John. And Sherlock would want John back, wouldn’t he?

John took a long breath in through his nose. Breathe, Watson. He’d survived worse than this. It would take more than a bit of torture to break him down. Hell, he and Murray had managed… Murray… He wanted to close his eyes, rest properly, but he suspected that would only result in being doused with cold water again. Sleep deprivation, always effective. So John sat.

The door gave a metallic thunk as it opened. John’s eyes narrowed and he straightened his shoulders. Going anywhere ‘easy’ was not his style. But the two men that entered his cell were merely returning his cellmate. The corner of his mouth twitched before he set his jaw; they weren’t there to take him anywhere, instead, they dumped the other man unceremoniously on the floor with a chortle. “Seems the lad doesn’t know anything after all.”

John sat, his eyes glinted with fury, but he held his tongue, watching with narrowed eyes as the two men left. The pile of wet limbs and limp body groaned. John kept his eyes fixed on the door. “Teddy?” he asked softly. The movement was clearly painful, but the younger man managed to curl onto his side and grunt. John finally took his eyes from the door to appraise the damage and his blood burned with rage.

“They want to know about Sherlock,” Teddy hissed.

John clenched his jaw. “Hush, you can tell me later.”

“And you. They don’t know who you are.”

“Teddy, try not to move.”

Teddy snorted a laugh that he immediately regretted and spat out a mouthful of blood.

John’s eyes hardened as he tallied the wounds. He’d been let off light in comparison. Or maybe Teddy didn’t know how to take a punch yet. It wasn’t something taught in the military either, but something learned by experience, brawling with the neighborhood bully, scuffling with the taller boys, scrapping with the angry ex-boyfriend that was displeased his previous girl was no longer into men, confronting the alcoholic hell-bent on physical punishment. John had spent his life learning to take a punch. Or rather, how to rally back from one. And at the end of the day, John Watson would rather take a punch than listen to someone else be punished in his place.

It had been, perhaps, two hours since John had seen Teddy. Two since he himself had been dragged from the room, fighting every inch of the way. He’d managed to break one nose and a few fingers before someone had landed a lucky blow that stunned him. And it had been, perhaps, an hour since John had been tossed back into the cell alone. And it had been a few short minutes since John had stopped hearing Teddy’s shouts. And now John sat, contemplating, plotting, titrating out his rage in small parcels of stillness that itched under his skin. The next person to touch Teddy Carlson would not walk again. And John would see to it himself.

 

~o~

 

Sherlock drummed his fingers relentlessly on the table, the cadence escalating to crescendo when he threw his arms up and stormed away from the table. “Sherlock,” Mycroft’s voice was calm and composed, but Lestrade suspected he was far from it.

Sherlock made a sound of frustration, knotting his fingers in his hair for a moment before spinning on his heel to glare at Mycroft. “What?” he snarled.

Mycroft arched a brow in response.

Sherlock pressed his eyes closed, clenched his jaw, tensed his neck and shoulders, fisted his hands and his body shuddered under the rigidity. For a fraction of a second, Lestrade was worried he’d explode with the tension. Then Sherlock released his breath through his nose and relaxed himself in the reverse order. Slowly opening his eyes to glare at Mycroft. “Sitting here is useless, Mycroft.”

Mycroft took a very slow, deep breath. “Charging aimlessly around London would be foolish.”

“It wouldn’t be aimless,” Sherlock bit out.

“John Watson has been hunting Moran for the past two years. He only just returned to London. There is no precedent here, Sherlock. No known accomplices, no previous haunts.” Mycroft spread his hands out at the photographs and files on the desktop; the ones retrieved from John’s duffle. “I will tolerate it should you need to excuse yourself, but to remain, I need your patience.”

“Patience,” Sherlock scoffed.

“And I need your word, Sherlock. I need to know you won’t rush off without cover.” Mycroft folded his hands together and rested them on the table. His posture was rather demure, but Greg had no doubt he could manage a guard that would contain Sherlock until this was over.

Sherlock hung his head, turning his back on the pair of them. Greg chewed on his lip nervously. He’d much rather be working with Sherlock than against him, but Sherlock was volatile right now, emotional to the extreme. He’d never been level when it had come to John Watson, and John had only just returned to him yesterday. What a fucking day. Mycroft’s phone buzzed and he favored it with a quick glance. Sherlock seemed to brace himself, pulling his spine up and his shoulders back. It took a moment, but he turned back into the room, “Where?”

“Your word, Sherlock,” Mycroft said calmly.

Sherlock gave a sharp nod. “You have it.”

Mycroft nodded slowly. “Sit.”

Greg twisted forward, leaning his elbows on the table. “Where?”

Sherlock perched on the other chair, not willing to settle completely. “Yes, where?”

Mycroft pulled out a tablet and clicked a few buttons, bringing a map of London up on the wall. “Tobacco Dock.”

“What?” Sherlock was out of his chair, glaring at the map in disgust. “It’s not even abandoned. They’ve revived the area. Using it for fundraisers and galas,” Sherlock waved his hand in disgust at the idea. “It’s… Populated.”

Lestrade frowned. “Yeah. But it used to be a bonded warehouse back in the day.”

“So?”

“So,” Greg said slowly. “Bonded warehouse, customable goods…” He raised his brows. “Alcohol?”

Sherlock just rolled his eyes. “Do spit it out.”

“All of the bonded warehouses had cellars to store the wine and liquors. They would have been sealed off or at least closed up in some way when they renovated.” Greg shrugged. “So there’d be… an entire underground level.”

“Well insulated and practically sound proof,” Sherlock purred.

“No CCTV,” Mycroft muttered.

“And well hidden,” Greg finished.

Sherlock returned to the table, laying his palms flat on the surface as a smile stretched his lips. “So what is our plan?”

 

~o~

 

“Rank and file.”

John glared. As long as they were leaving Teddy alone, leaving him in the room. John could take a few minutes of lone attention.

The fist connected with his face and his ears rang with the impact.

“Rank. And. File.”

John wet his lips, tasting blood. “Current king of England.”

They went for a body shot, coming up and under his ribs on the left. His breath rush out and he staggered. He needed his spleen, better start protecting it. The hands clamped back down on his upper arms, keeping him upright.

“Rank and file!”

“Alright, alright,” John wheezed. “You must have heard of my work. Even if you didn’t listen to MDNA, everyone knows my song, ‘Like a Virgin.’”

Switched sides, he though wryly, curling over his right flank. That may or may not have bruised the liver. Need that too. He’d have a nice big whiskey when he got home. Can’t have the liver too rattled to deal with whiskey. Oh. That was the smell. Wood, oak, sherry, casks. Old distillery? Bonded warehouse? That’s what their cell smelled like—maturing scotch. Helluva time for an epiphany.

“Rank and file, solider.”

John clenched his jaw and glared at the man.

“Fine,” he hissed. “The boss is back. Let him deal with you then.”

The fist slamming into his spine was shocking enough that his legs gave out and it sent him to his knees. John managed to catch himself there, his bum dropping onto his heels, anything to keep from catching his fall with his face. He hung his head, trying to slow his breathing again. He shivered. It would have been nice not to be soaked again, but they seemed to put a lot of stock in drowning him every few hours. Plan, he needed a plan. He couldn’t keep this up much longer. Even the impact in his knees had sent a jarring wave through his body. There was actually a limit to how much he could take, and they were pushing him dangerously close to it.

A fresh pair of boots stopped a few inches from his knees, and John squinted at them. Smaller than the others, the footfalls had been lighter, almost delicate; army boots, but not standard issue, had seen action. He blinked rapidly, resisting the urge to spit on them. Fingers wove into his damp hair, and John couldn’t bring himself to fight the movement when they clenched and yanked his head back.

“Hello, Johnny Boy.”

John’s mouth slackened in horror. “Moriarty,” he breathed. John was on his back before he registered the knee that had connected with his jaw. He heaved a breath and blinked up at the ceiling, the sensation of the ground tilting beneath him twisting his stomach. He tried to roll, to ease the strain on his shoulders, but blow seemed to have left a disconnect between his brain and his limbs.

“Up.”

He was hauled to his feet, a forearm wrapping around his throat and pulling him to attention, extending his spine, exposing his chest and abdomen in a way that made John feel far too vulnerable. The change in altitude sent his head spinning as he tried to regain control of his faculties. The static in his ears abated quickly, but he pressed his eyes closed against the specter in front of him. He couldn’t, wouldn’t believe Moriarty was alive. John knew. He _knew_ Moriarty was dead. You cannot survive that type of shot. Dead was dead was dead. And now he was here. Staring at John. Same dead eyes, black and empty.

“Captain John H. Watson,” the phantom hissed. “Royal Army Medical Corps, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. Two tours of duty in Afghanistan, invalided home when he became useless.”

John closed his eyes for a moment, taking slower, calming breaths through his nose, relaxing his body to ease the pressure from his windpipe. When he opened them again, his brows dropped and he looked, actually looked. Glared at the man pacing in front of him. Same height. Heavier, bulkier, more muscle maybe. Same eerily gentle voice, unusual inflection. Military bearing – that was new; tactical dress, comfortable and worn, paramilitary. Deep scar that arched from the outside of his right brow down to his cheek, a crescent shape, old, poorly healed, no… well healed, poorly repaired at the time of injury. His shoulders were off-set. The right drooped and curled forward. Shattered clavicle? It bowed the space. John tried not to laugh; it made the perfect cradle for the butt of a rifle. Those were old injuries. Not the same…

John snapped his head back at the last minute, his movement halted by the man behind him and holding him upright, as the ghoulish face stopped only an inch from his own. Same eyes, same insanity. “Useless,” he hissed at John. The invasive posture reversed into something less affected, upright, indifferent, casual and the head tilted slowly. John realized sickeningly that he wouldn’t have been remotely surprised if it had rotated a full three hundred and sixty degrees. “I wish my brother had known better.”

John blinked again. Brother… It was said softly, almost with deference. Brother. Twins? “Moran,” John bit out harshly.

“Hi,” Moran drew out the single syllable into a lilting, thrilled, two-syllabled sound that made John cringe. “I heard you were looking for me.” He grinned and brought his head back upright. The expression warped again into twisted rage. “Seems I found you first,” he hissed.

John didn’t see the blade, but he certainly felt it. And he screamed as it plunged into his left shoulder. Though the scar tissue was mostly dead, the sensation of metal on bone as it bounced off his clavicle was gut-wrenching, and he gave another choked off gasp as the blade rotated and retreated. The arm around his neck tightened against his struggles as the metal was replaced with flesh and bone. Moran jabbed his index finger into the wound and twisted. A moment later, John found himself on his knees, panting heavily. He shook his head gently, trying to will his eyes to focus, failing to ignore the warm glide of blood, trailing down the front of his shirt.

The tip of the blade pressed into the soft tissue beneath his jaw and John brought his head up to alleviate the pressure. Moran squatted in front of him, holding a small metal bean in his bloodied fingers. He caught John’s gaze, “Tell Mycroft that if he wishes to tag his baby brother’s pets, he’ll have to hide the trackers better.” John blinked at the thing in Moran’s hand. His brow furrowed involuntarily as he exhaled sharply. A slow smile spread across Moran’s face. “Oh, you didn’t know? You didn’t know.” He sounded pleased, positively gleeful. “How could you possibly think Mycroft Holmes would trust someone like you?”

The blade disappeared as Moran rose and John let his head drop to hang loosely between his shoulders. Very close to his limits, so close. The bug, tracker, metal bead, thing crunched into pieces beneath Moran’s boot. John wasn’t sure he was disappointed; he hadn’t even known it was there in the first place. But Mycroft had known. What a son of a bitch. What an absolute prat. The corner of John’s mouth tugged back hesitantly. “Bastard,” he huffed. Mycroft Holmes, encyclopedic knowledge and yet couldn’t define privacy with a dictionary in his hands. “What a prick,” John chuckled. All the time he was away, every moment, every move, every attack, there was nothing clandestine about it. Mycroft had known about each and every one, knew where John was every second of the day. John felt his shoulders start to shake with the low laughter he couldn’t contain.

Moran squatted back down, eying John carefully, curiously. “What?”

Mycroft Holmes had known where they’d been for the past few hours. And there was no doubt in John’s mind that there was a plan already in action. He lifted his head slowly, blinking away tears of mirth. “Mycroft,” he snorted and laughed outright. “He’s such a stupid git!” John’s head dropped again as he doubled up in amusement.

A smile flickered across Moran’s face. Maybe John Watson was irrevocably broken. “Git, yes.” The smile faded as Moran’s eyes narrowed. “Stupid, no.”

“Colonel!”

Moran stood and glared.

“Sir, they’re here.”


	7. Part VII: Let Your Plans Be Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU - reversing the roles from the fall; John falls, Sherlock is left. Moran made his move. Now it's the Holmesean counter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is still pretty dark. I mean... I think you all know that now. You have been warned. Some of the violence is implied, some of it is point blank... But if you are only looking for fluff, I would say you're not going to keep enjoying this. Then again, it does say major character death, so I won't be held completely accountable. I'll add any tw's that people feel are needed:
> 
> tw: torture  
> tw: violence  
> tw: blood  
> tw: death  
> tw: Mycroft is a big bag of dicks (but really that's why we love him)
> 
> Apologies for the long wait. This chapter was equally as hard to write. I almost (ALMOST) split it in two, but then I liked it as one whole. Different sort of cliffhanger there this time around.
> 
> As with the last chapter: all of the sequences in italics are flashbacks. And as always, thank you to Sociy for the prompt that started this and thank you to Reichy, my beta buns. Although... I may have killed Reichy with this one. And if she's not dead yet, the next chapter will probably do it. I haven't quite decided if this is going to take 8 or 9 chapters total; it depends on how 8 fleshes out. But there's at least one more if not two.
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> **"Let your plans be dark and impenetrable as night, and when you move, fall like a thunderbolt."**  
>  ~Sun Tzu, The Art of War

Teddy shifted uneasily. The relative calm of his captors had dissipated into chaos and the sudden action, clamor in the halls, barked orders, restlessness had left Teddy with a distinct sense of dread. He’d managed to find a position, propped against the wall, that didn’t aggravate his injuries too much and he was woe to move. But he was worried about John and anxiety had him itching to shift, maybe stand.

The door was thrown open and Teddy flinched as John was dumped on the floor. There was blood and a lot of it. A lot more than Teddy thought possible and way more than he was comfortable with. And John was trembling from it, shaking. No. Not shaking… laughing? Teddy frowned. “What did you do to him?”

“Do?” the man asked innocently. Teddy felt his brow furrow. This was the boss they’d been talking about? He was… young, or young enough. Small. And in spite of the scar, he looked almost delicate. His dark eyes flit down to John, considering him for a moment before using his boot to roll John onto his back and press his heel into the bloodied mess of John’s left shoulder. John hissed, but his next breath was another chuckle.

The man’s eyebrow rose slightly, “This is what useless looks like.” The detached tone in the man’s voice made Teddy shiver. He’d seen bad people in his short career, but this was the first time that the word evil seemed apt. Then the dark eyes slid up to look at Teddy, and he felt his blood run cold. The man tilted his head, “What else should we do with broken toys?”

“Sir,” one of the thugs interrupted.

The cool, calm expression vanished as the boss went rigid with anger. “What?” he snapped, finally lifting his boot from John’s shoulder.

The thug shifted uncomfortably, not risking any verbal answer.

“Fine,” the boss sneered. He drew himself into military attention and gave Teddy a serpentine smile. “You shouldn’t be worried about what we’ve done to John Watson, Mr. Carlson. You should be worried about what we’ll do to you when we’re done with him.” Teddy swallowed convulsively. The boss turned, all diplomacy vanishing into command. “You and you,” he singled out two of the thugs. “You guard this door. No one gets in. They die or you die or both.” Then he was gone and the cell door slammed in his wake.

Teddy shuddered and recanted his initial assessment of the man. He wasn’t delicate, he was psychotic. Teddy released a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding into the quiet of the room. Quiet? John had stopped laughing. “John?”

John heaved a sigh that ended in a grunt and managed to roll himself onto his side then his knees. Teddy watched the process, wincing empathetically at the movements. “I’m so fucking sick of these,” John muttered. It was a sharp motion, quick and deliberate, and the riot ties snapped. John groaned in relief and rubbed at his wrists and shoulders. “Teddy,” he gave a slight nod. “Did you by any chance notice which ones he left outside?”

Teddy released a laugh. “You’re fine then, are you?”

If John’s smile was supposed to be reassuring, it wasn’t.

 

~o~

 

Lestrade had been privy to a wide range of Holmsian experiences that few others had seen and survived. But this was something new. Something equally fascinating and terrifying. The speed at which the pair of them had formulated a plan was well beyond his ability to keep up. But the method was oddly familiar and Greg took some comfort in the fact that he felt much the same as he did when Sherlock solved a case and tossed him a few unrelated sentences meant to explain everything. It was humbling and somehow amazing. But what Sherlock did with flourish and drama, Mycroft did with motionless calculation. Sherlock paced and gestured and Mycroft sat, writing novels with single eyebrow raises and the flicker of movement at the corners of his mouth.

If Greg had hoped that Sherlock’s violently emotive motivation would be mitigated by Mycroft, he was rapidly disappointed. Where Sherlock might have done something with the slightest bit of caution, Mycroft removed all doubt; swift action and justice, metered out without remorse, without fear or care. Sherlock may claim to be a sociopath, but Mycroft toed the line much more insistently and frequently than his little brother. If they’d ever truly join forces, God save the world.

“So it’s decided,” Mycroft said softly. “It will secure the hostages with minimal bloodshed. It protects the community and provides a certain plausible deniability.”

“Sorry, what now?” Greg interrupted.

“Do keep up, Detective Inspector,” Mycroft purred.

“But what if they-”

“Then we counter with our secondary unit.”

Lestrade raked a hand nervously through his hair and blew out a breath. “Thought of everything then?”

Sherlock scoffed.

Mycroft gave an amused smile. “That is what we do, Gregory.”

“Fine.” He set his hands on his thighs and pushed up. “So where are these…?”

Anthea appeared at the door carrying a bundle of clothes.

“Of course,” Greg muttered. “Let’s get going then.”

Less than ten minutes later, he sat in the back of the vehicle with Sherlock. “So, Mycroft didn’t want to play army?”

Sherlock smirked. “He doesn’t like legwork.”

“But…”

Sherlock’s face melted into a serious expression. “We cannot risk it. It would be too out of character and too dangerous.”

“You’re coming.”

“So are you.” The wry smile returned to Sherlock’s face. “There are certain levels of acceptable risk. Anytime you leave your house, you could be struck by a car, you could be mugged, you could be hit by a falling tree branch, attacked by a dog, eat chicken that’s gone off. Mycroft considers all of these and makes a calculated decision.”

“Yeah, but…”

“People fall into different categories. Disposable, not disposable, definitely not disposable. I, for whatever reason, remain in the last category. Sentiment.” He rolled his eyes petulantly. “As, I suspect, do you. John Watson, however I would classify him, has always been not disposable. I think that must change.”

“Sherlock, people aren’t disposable… Wait, why am I definitely not disposable?”

Sherlock’s face scrunched in a condescending expression of disgust as he leaned back against the leather seats. “For the same reason that I find John Watson to be definitely not disposable.”

That didn’t make sense. Lestrade swallowed, “Sentiment?”

“Human error,” Sherlock purred in a form of agreement.

“Tell me this is going to work, Sherlock.”

Sherlock turned, focusing the full strength of his gaze on Greg. “It will work.”

The line of four BearCats pulled to a silent stop along Pennington Street, the black sedan finding a spot around the corner on Wapping Lane. Traffic, both vehicular and pedestrian had been redirected to keep the area clear. Sherlock shifted in his seat, the quiet in a central part of London making him uncomfortable. Lestrade set a hand on his shoulder, “Steady. We have to wait.”

“I know that,” Sherlock hissed.

Greg let out a long, slow breath as they watched the BearCats empty. “Do I want to know what those blokes are actually called?” Greg asked with a tilt of his head.

Sherlock grinned. “I could tell you, but…”

“Then you’d have to kill me?”

Sherlock scoffed. “Please. You think _I’d_ have to kill you?”

Lestrade chuckled. “Right. I don’t want to know.”

 

~o~

 

“Hey?! HEY!” John shouted, leaping to his feet. “Help! You gotta help!” He started kicking madly at the door. “He’s having a seizure! I can’t-! Please!”

It was loud enough to draw the attention of the two men on the other side. “Settle down!”

“Please!” John shouted. “Just look! He’s having a fit! I can’t do anything with my hands tied! You gotta cut me loose! HEY!” He kicked the door until it opened.

The first guard through the door planted a hand on John’s chest and shoved, pinning him against the wall with a snarl. “Shut up!”

John winced at the impact, but held fast, glancing at Teddy with concern. “Please. He’s seizing.”

The second guard crossed the room and squatted by Teddy’s side. “What the fuck?”

“You, you gotta get him flat on his back until he stops shaking,” John’s voice was tinged with panic.

“Keep him from swallowing his tongue,” the first guard threw out. “Use your belt or something.”

“No,” John barked. “That’s not right! I’m a doctor. Look, just cut my hands loose, I can handle this.”

The first guard glared at John, stooping to menace nose to nose. “That’s what you want, isn’t it? For us to cut you both loose? So you can try to escape? You need your hands before you can run. I’m not an idiot.”

The expression of anxiety melted from John’s face as he smiled. “Clearly,” he muttered, releasing the death grip he had on his own wrist and brought his right fist into the man’s gut. In spite of his injuries, the movements remained fluid as John stepped forward and brought the man down at the back of the knees. In a matter of seconds, the first guard was kneeling with a knife at his throat and John didn’t appear to have much mercy left in him.

“I’ll shoot your friend,” the second guard cried from the other side of the room.

John glanced up and tilted his head. The guard had his pistol drawn, aimed steadily at the spot on the floor where Teddy had been twitching, but his gaze was flitting between John’s face and the knife in his hand. John raised a brow. “Will you now?” He didn’t flinch when Teddy struck the man hard enough to knock him unconscious. Teddy retrieved the gun and shook out his arms with a relieved smile. John nodded. “Alright?”

“Yeah,” Teddy released a pent up breath. “Next time, you get to flop around on the ground. That’s fucking sore.”

John snorted. “Fair enough.” His guard joined the other on the floor with a dull thud and John relieved the man of his gun and radio. “Ready?”

 

~o~

 

Sherlock’s mobile vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out and glanced at the screen with a frown. Sherlock rolled his eyes and answered, “What do you want, Mycroft?”

“Just checking in, brother dear.”

“Why? Can’t you see everything on your screens?”

Mycroft hummed softly. “Staying put?”

“Of course we are.”

“Are they ready?”

“Chomping at the bit,” Sherlock hissed.

“Good. That’s good.”

Sherlock scoffed. “I’m hanging up now.”

“Sherlock?”

“What?”

“Be careful.”

Sherlock snorted and disconnected the line. “Tedious.”

Greg frowned. “What was that about?”

“A reminder,” Sherlock muttered darkly. “Like I could forget.”

“Of?”

“That I promised.”

 

~o~

 

The appropriated radio on his belt crackled and John pulled up short, extending a hand to keep Teddy back against the wall and in the shadows.

“Colonel, we’ve the car wired.”

“Confirm they haven’t exited.”

“Confirmed.”

“Roger. Leave the BearCats, take out the sedan.”

John exhaled sharply. They were going to blow up one of the cars? The sedan? Just like they did outside of Baker Street. Killed Mycroft’s driver. And if there was a sedan, here, now… “Sherlock.”

They both looked up as a deep boom sounded overhead and reverberated down the hallway. Bits of dust and plaster sprinkled the floor from the weak points in the structure. And in a moment, the space was silent again.

“John?” Teddy whispered.

His brows twitched. And when he met Teddy’s concerned gaze, John snapped his mouth shut, the discomfort on his face hardening into a dark ferocity. He set his jaw and tugged the newly appropriated pistol from his waistband. “Come on.”

 

~o~

 

Mycroft watched the screen as reasonable chunks of metal rained down on the empty street. It made for an odd juxtaposition, burnt out luxury car on an empty London street. His face didn’t move, and for a moment, Mycroft didn’t breathe. Finally, he swallowed, pressed a button on the screen, and issued an order. “Go.”

 

~o~

 

The noise seemed to come from everywhere at once and John flinched back into one of the doorframes. Marching? Boots? It echoed up and down the halls that were a maze enough without the disorienting clamor. “The fuck?” he breathed.

Teddy pressed in behind him, “What is that?”

John’s face scrunched as if he’d scented something distasteful. “I have no idea.”

The radio clipped in. “Colonel, they’ve breached the perimeter.”

“Push them out.”

John frowned. So that was the plan? A full frontal assault? He shook his head; Mycroft wouldn’t be so uncreative. “It’s a distraction,” he murmured.

“What?”

John wet his lips. “They’re not coming in the front door, Teddy. They’ll be coming the way we’re going.”

“The river?”

“Trust me.” John grinned. “Come on, the air feels damp, doesn’t it? We’re heading the right way.”

They made a slow and steady progress down the crisscrossing corridors, clinging to the shadows, remaining as silent as they could, though stealth was unnecessary with the ongoing din of stomping. Coming to another intersection, John carefully shot a glance around the corner and pulled back, tucking behind one of the pillars in a crouch. Teddy matched his movements and they watched a group of six men in full tactical gear creep silently past the opening. John clenched his jaw. They looked too well equipped, too coordinated, too good to be part of Moran’s contingent. But he couldn’t risk it without being sure.

It was almost a critical error when John straightened upright. Two more men were following, trailing a dozen feet behind the unit, moving almost casually. John bit back a curse and held his breath as they paused at the junction. He waited, listening for evidence of them moving on, only daring to peek when they had turned and were moving away, deeper down John’s corridor.

“Wait, stop!” The command was hushed, barely audible over the constant thumping, but John heard it. And he recognized the voice. “Insufferable prat.”

John huffed out a laugh and let his shoulders droop slightly, but he didn’t holster his weapon. He cleared his throat loudly, “Lestrade?”

Only one of the pair was left in hall, but he spun quickly, a hand on his side arm. John had been careful to keep himself mostly sheltered, but his face was visible, as was his gun. Lestrade cautiously lifted his hands out before lifting his visor. “John?”

John flashed a relieved smile and slumped against the pillar. “Jesus, am I glad to see you.”

Lestrade tugged his helmet off and closed the distance between them. “Teddy?”

John tipped his head at the space over his shoulder. “He’s ok.”

“Christ,” Lestrade muttered as he passed John to reach his nephew. “Oh thank God.” He pulled Teddy into a tight embrace.

John felt his relief draining quickly into fatigue and pushed off the pillar. “Greg, tell me there’s an exit plan.”

Lestrade glanced up over Teddy’s shoulder. “There is. We’ve transport waiting. We just need…” He trailed off as he glanced down the hall.

“What?”

“Sherlock,” Greg frowned. “He’s…” He swiped a hand across his mouth. “Damnit.”

John winced. “He knows how to get out?”

Lestrade nodded.

“And plan was to find us and exit?”

“Straight up extraction.”

John sighed and set his jaw. “Take Teddy. I’ll get Sherlock.”

Lestrade’s hand closed over his right shoulder. “Are you sure you’re up for that?”

Humorless smiles were an art form for John. “’Course.”

“You look like shit.”

“Thanks.”

Lestrade nodded. “Five minutes or I come back in.”

“Five minutes,” John agreed.

“Remind him that he promised.”

“Promised?” John checked his gun again, expelling the cartridge and counting the bullets.

“Five minutes,” Greg repeated. “And John,” he dropped his voice. “He wants Moran.”

John’s eyes flashed. “So do I.”

 

~o~

 

Sherlock moved deeper into the bowels of the old warehouse. Coming in from the Wapping basin, they would leave out of the Eastern Dock. It gave them quick, easy access to the river and a shocking number of underground entrances and exits. The explosion and movement of the ground level men served as excellent distraction. He was certain they’d entered undetected. No one in their right mind would attack from the surface. The entire ground level was open air, open space; it would have been a massacre.

He listened to the thrum of the men outside, monotonous, rhythmic, loud enough to be intimidating and confusing. Perfect. While he could move near silently, the full body armor made his usually lithe movement impossible. He stripped the helmet and tucked it in a corner; no sense in masking the senses he had. He froze, sniffing the air for a moment. There was a shift, stirring, displacement in the air. He narrowed his eyes as he strained his ears. Small group heading his way. The corner of his mouth drew back in a feral expression as he slipped into an alcove and drew his pistol. He heard the static, the crackle of the radio just before the voices. Interesting it came from both directions.

“Colonel, we’ve got a problem.”

Sherlock heard the click, someone turning off a handset and he twisted to squint into the dark. People coming from both directions and getting closer. Three from the left, just one from the right. The one on the right moving cautiously, economically, limping slightly. The three on the left in military cadence. Marching with purpose.

“If you’re wasting my time, you’ll regret it!”

Sherlock barred his teeth. That voice wasn’t over a radio, that voice was approaching from the left. That voice was familiar.

“Colonel, it’s… They’re not advancing, but…”

“Take care of them,” the order was barked from around the corner.

It was too late to communicate with the unit. Another moment and the trio would be passing his location. Sherlock heard the shuffle from behind him and risked a glance in time to see a flash of movement, a body, cross the open space and tuck into an archway. There was a strange stutter step, and two men turned his direction. Two? There had been three. Sherlock eased further back into the shadows, watching the pair pass only inches from his spot.

He eased in behind them, waiting for the right moment to take his shot. It came sooner than he expected. The archway ahead definitely concealed a person, and with ten feet to go, the person emerged, gun drawn and a rather murderous smile on his face. “Sherlock, I’ve got the one on my right, yeah?”

Sherlock grinned. “Absolutely.” If he’d kept silent, John would have had to deal with the two at once. As it stood, they both half turned, and John and Sherlock engaged them. John made quick work of his combatant and squared his shoulders, ready to help Sherlock with his charge.

John jerked as a hand closed around his throat. Panic wasn’t his first reaction, but it was damn close. He twisted, driving an elbow into the body behind him. The fingers clenched, tightening around his windpipe, but John missed the glint of metal as a second arm wrapped across him and plunged a knife into his left shoulder. Goddammit, always the left shoulder. And he knew it was Moran. For a second, the metal froze the flesh and sent an icy numbness down his arm. John’s brain told him the blade had severed a nerve. It was just the shock. The pain slammed into him like a sledgehammer and John choked back a scream. “Oh Captain, my Captain,” Moran murmured.

“John!” Sherlock brought the butt of his gun down onto the man’s temple, letting him slump to the floor. He spun, the muzzle of his pistol following his line of sight until he found John and… “Mo-Moran?” It was supposed to be accusatory, but the distraction of seeing Jim Moriarty’s madly grinning face managed to upset his speech.

“Shoot him,” John wheezed. “Shoot him, Sherlock!”

“An inch, Johnny boy,” he hissed. “I only need to drag this an inch and I’ll find your subclavian, slice it open where it becomes the axillary.” He pulled John backward, drawing him from the hallway into an atrium. “How quickly would you bleed out?”

John grit his teeth and held fast to Moran’s forearm. “Do it, Sherlock!”

“He won’t do it,” Moran purred. “He can’t. Look at him shake.”

Sherlock’s hands were steady, but his eyes were wider than John had ever seen them. Sherlock was scared, and that shook John to his core. Moran grabbed a fist full of John’s hair and yanked backward, twisting the knife in his grip. John’s cry broke in his throat and he stumbled. “John!”

“Anyone else, John,” Moran’s voice rippled down John’s spine like pins and needles. “He’d be able to shoot past anyone else.” With another merciless tug, Moran maneuvered them across the atrium. “How does it feel to be special, John Watson?”

“Please, Sherlock!” John ground out. He let out a yelp as Moran kicked the back of his knee, shoving him forward onto his hands and knees. Instinct had him tucking to land on his right shoulder, grabbing at the handle of the knife to keep it from moving. The impact still lanced through his chest and ran down his left arm like a lick of fire.

The crack of a firearm reverberated through the room and John rolled over his shoulder and pushed up to his feet, scrambling to reach the wall. His heart was racing, pounding in his ears. He caught the flash of sadistic smile as Moran disappeared down one of the corridors. Then the room went still. John let his back slide down the wall until his bum met the concrete floor, his right hand still clenching futilely to the handle of the knife. Sherlock dropped to his knees in front of him. “John?”

John winced. “M’alright.”

“You’re not,” Sherlock snapped. His head whirled in the direction that Moran had departed. And with a snarl, Sherlock pushed off the floor and darted after him.

“No, Sherlock!” John grunted. “You promised!”

Sherlock froze, holding back his momentum with a palm pressed into the doorframe as he glared down the corridor. “I promised.” He was slow to turn back into the room; a few of the unit had taken up defensive positions at the other egress points. “John…” Sherlock straightened and pointed down the hall, bidding a pair of the men to follow. “Moran’s that way.”

John sighed heavily and dropped his head, a weak smile cast to the ground. “Idiot.” He gripped the handle of the knife slowly drew it free, dropping it unceremoniously to the floor with a cuss before clamping his right hand over the wound.

“John,” Sherlock chastised.

John squinted at Sherlock, “What was that?”

“What was what?”

John pushed uneasily to his feet. Sherlock’s eyes narrowed as he tried to pinpoint the sound amongst the echoes.

Beep. Beep.

Over Sherlock’s shoulder, down the corridor, a small red flash. John blinked and gripped his shoulder harder, feeling fresh blood seep between his fingers.

Beep. Beep.

“Sherlock,” John’s voice came out in a low warning.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

“Get down!” John launched himself. Full body tackle. He managed to get an arm up behind Sherlock’s head before they hit the hard, concrete floor. They tumbled over twice in a mass of limbs and body before John wound up on top. He tucked down, pulling Sherlock’s head against his shoulder, belatedly and painfully throwing his left arm over the back of his head and neck.

The explosion was enough to rattle the foundations of the building. The first concussive wave knocked John’s breath from him as the second seared along his exposed skin. Not hot enough to singe his hair, but he’d be burned. Dust, smoke, soot, and rubble shot out of the tunnel and shook free of the ceilings. Then silence.

John groaned, pressing his eyes shut against the spinning in his head. It could have been the blast, it could have been the sound, it could have been the past twenty-four hours, but his ears were ringing and the world tilting rather uneasily. He sucked in a breath and winced. Tried another and pushed up onto his hands and knees, blinking at the blue-green eyes beneath him. “Sherlock?”

Sherlock’s expression was both surprise and solace, his mouth twisting into something of a smirk. John’s own panic melted in the face of his friend’s relief as he huffed out a soft laugh. The tremor started in his left hand, spreading up his arm to his shoulder. He tried to take a deep breath, but pain lanced across his left side and back. His elbow buckled and he tried to tuck, roll onto his shoulder, but he never made it to the ground.

“John? John!” Sherlock’s expression darkened as he turned on his own radio. “I need a medic!”

 

~o~

 

The first time John woke, it was a fleeting consciousness with the unpleasant sensation of battling to suck his breaths through a straw, through a straw that was kinked and intermittently determined to fight against him. Mercifully, he was out before he could keep his eyes open.

 

The second time, he came to with a gasp of pain, something just shy of panic, and the impression that a boulder was sitting on the left side of his chest. _Not having a heart attack,_ he repeated in his head as he grit his teeth.

“John?” a firm hand closed around his right shoulder. “I told you that dose wouldn’t be sufficient!”

“They were weaning the sedation, Sherlock. They had to drop it down.”

“Well get them back in here to fix it! He’s in pain!”

“Sherlock…”

“John?”

John tried. He tried again. Finally managing to force his eyes open for a few fleeting moments. _Sherlock_. John winced and garbled the name. Breathing was agony; sharp spikes of pain ran down his left arm and wrapped around his chest. Maybe he was being crushed to death.

“John,” Sherlock’s voice was hushed. He’d looked pale when John had managed to glimpse him, but then again, the florescent lights had bleached the color from everything. “Breathe, John.”

He tried. God love him, he tried. But the vise of pain clamped down on his throat and he whimpered instead.

“John.” The hand on his shoulder gripped harder.

He couldn’t decide what was worse, his chest or the anxiety in Sherlock’s voice.

“It’s about time!” Sherlock snarled.

“Sir, if you cannot remain calm, I will have you removed from the room.”

“Sherlock, just… Just let her do her job.”

“Job?” The noise that came from the back his throat was halfway between a whine and a growl of disgust.

“Sherlock.”

John knew the moment the opiate hit his system. Thank God for IV drugs. He sighed as the spasms eased into a dull throb and he could take a proper breath. He let himself take a few deep, gratifying inhalations before contemplating trying his eyes again. They were working somewhat. He hummed and cleared his throat. “Sherlock?”

“John?” Sherlock’s head swiveled, his focus returning in its entirety. “John, how are you feeling?”

He grunted and swallowed, letting his eyes drift shut again.

“John?”

He felt warm, soft around the edges again.

“John?”

 

The third time, John was well and truly awake.

He grunted and furrowed his brow. Something had clearly died in his mouth; lived a long and fruitful life, had offspring, died, was buried, possibly resurrected on the third day, and continued to fester. God he needed to brush his teeth. Or he needed water. He was thirsty. And his throat was raw. Maybe he dry swallowed a brillo pad. That would make sense —a used brillo pad from 221B.

A vague recollection of the last attempt to breathe eked across his consciousness, so John took his time. He took stock: careful, easy breaths; gentle movements of his fingers and toes; an inventory of his faculties before opening his eyes. It was too bright. Harshly light with sharp edges. It took a few attempts before he could bear the stinging and watering of looking around.

“John?”

He turned, frowning. “Greg?” his voice was hoarse, sandpaper raw. He’d expected to see Sherlock.

“Hey,” Lestrade gave him a tight-lipped smile. “Welcome back.”

John grunted. “Yeah.” He shifted his right arm and shoulder experimentally.

“Don’t move the left,” Lestrade warned. “I promised, and if I get thrown out, Sherlock will get thrown out, and you’re on your own.”

John snorted. “Thanks for the heads up.”

Lestrade eyed him warily. “You alright?”

“Mmn,” John hummed. “I love hospitals.”

Greg huffed out a laugh. “Sherlock’s in the shower. I couldn’t convince him to go home, but I had some things brought in anyway. He’s going to be cross that you’re awake.”

The corner of John’s mouth twitched. “If you just give me a little love tap on the cheek, I’m sure I can pass out right quick.”

“I’d rather keep my limbs attached, thanks.”

John swallowed. “Teddy?”

Greg let out a long, heavy breath and scratched the nape of his neck. “He’s ok.”

“Ok?”

“He’s doing better than you are. They’re letting him out today, and he’ll stay with me until we’re sure.”

“Sure about what?” John’s gaze tightened.

“That Moran was one of the bodies we pulled out of the blast,” Lestrade looked at him pointedly.

John shook his head minutely. “He wasn’t, Greg.”

“You can’t know that.”

“I do,” John said flatly. “I saw him. It was his plan.”

Greg sighed heavily. “Shit.”

“Mycroft?”

“Working on it too.”

“Hm.” John nodded. The movement made him wince.

“John?”

Both of them turned at the sound of Sherlock’s voice. Greg stood, “Right. I’m going to get a cup of coffee and some food. Sherlock? Anything?”

Sherlock waved a hand dismissively, but John frowned. “He’ll drink some tea and eat a piece of toast.”

Sherlock scowled at John, but the expression vanished as the bedside chair was vacated and he took over the space fluidly. “I’ll drink the tea.”

Greg nodded. “I’ll be back in a while.” And he made a speedy exit.

“Damn right you’ll drink the tea,” John muttered.

“John.”

“I’m alright, Sherlock.”

“You’re not.”

“I will be.”

Sherlock didn’t reply, watching John closely, his eyes flitting between bruises and abrasions.

“And you’ll eat the toast.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but the beginning of a smile tugged at his lips.

 

~o~

 

“Gregory.”

“Mycroft?” Lestrade nearly dropped the paper cups as he started. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

Mycroft tilted his head. “Needs must.”

Greg shifted the small package of food into his other hand. “Needs?”

“I hear they’re releasing your nephew,” Mycroft ignored the question. “That’s good, isn’t it?”

Greg pulled a face. “I’m keeping him in London. For now. For… awhile, probably.”

Mycroft’s brow rose. “It may be some time.”

“I’d rather keep an eye on him,” Greg said flatly.

“As will I.”

“Mycroft…”

“And John Watson has woken. That’s good too.”

“Yeah. Just…” Greg frowned. “Mycroft, really? The hospital room?” Even though Mycroft’s face remained impassive, Lestrade found himself distinctly recognizing it as a smug expression. Goddamned Holmeses. “Then you know that some of this food is for Sherlock. And seeing as it’ll be the only thing he’s consumed in the past two days, I’d probably better be getting back.”

“Mmn,” Mycroft hummed in neither an affirmative nor negative. “I fear Dr. Watson is correct.”

Greg bristled. “You fear or you know?” Mycroft raised a brow again in reply. “Then there should be someone on the door. There should be someone on Teddy’s door! Damnit, Mycroft!”

Mycroft’s smile was cold. “Do you doubt I would be here if that weren’t the case?”

Lestrade grinned, baring his teeth. “No. Of course you wouldn’t.”

“They are safe. Sherlock’s detail is well used to this,” Mycroft’s left arm twitched at his side as though he wanted to gesture, but thought better of it. “Type of situation. Those responsible for Dr. Watson are capable. You and Teddy will be watched. You needn’t fear that.”

“Any clue as to what…”

This time, Mycroft’s smile was deadly. “Absolutely. And, Detective Inspector, before you take Teddy home, I need a favor.”

 

~o~

 

John woke with a stab of pain and the uneasy feeling that something was wrong. He snorted, furrowing his brow before blinking his eyes open. It wasn’t an easy task. God, everything was aching. And the bedside lamp was harsh and, even without the bright daylight from earlier, the small bulb was stinging his eyes. He sucked in a breath and gritted his teeth against the stretch and lance of pain from his ribs. It shouldn’t hurt so much. Sherlock? Where… Oh.

He finally managed to keep his eyes open long enough to find Sherlock, asleep on the chair next to his bed, Belstaff wrapped around his lanky form, feet and knees tucked up on the chair. He looked pale, tired, dark circles under his eyes, bruises from exhaustion, from too little sleep, from too little food, from worry. He looked young. More importantly, he looked alive. If he stretched his right arm out, he could touch him to be sure, but John closed his eyes and sighed instead. At least Sherlock was alive.

Another twinge of pain from the closed drain site stirred him again. They’d taken the chest drain out earlier in the day, but it shouldn’t be that sore. Come to think of it, the wound in his shoulder was burning with a consistent pulse of pain. Even his face was sore again. He shifted his left hand, twitching his fingers, looking for the PCA button or the nurse call button; either would do. Nothing there. He patted carefully along the edge of the bed and couldn’t find it. It had been clipped to the sheet there, hadn’t it? He sighed again and risked the throb that would accompany movement to turn his head to the left.

He frowned. No pump, no call button. The door to his room was open, but the hallway looked dark. In fact, the only light seemed to be the bedside lamp. John squinted. This wasn’t right. There was something… Something had woken him. Something had…

“Look at you, Johnny boy.”

John was awake. Sharply and fiercely awake. He knew that voice, the light, singsong quality, the lilt. He tried to sit up as the now familiar frame of Sebastian Moran lunged forward from the darkened corner of the room.

John managed to suck in a quick breath and draw up his hands defensively before Moran was on him. He negotiated a roll to the side of the first punch, the fist landing on the pillow, but the second blow was unavoidable. Moran’s elbow connected with the left side of his face and snapped his head to the side. John released half of a shout before the hand clamped firmly over his mouth, cutting off his cry. John lashed out, but his punch didn’t have the strength to do more than knock Moran’s face to the side in deflection.

Moran pressed his palm down hard, forcing John’s head back, arching his spine as he flailed. He couldn’t coordinate his movements, couldn’t mount a response, couldn’t fight… Moran easily caught his wrists, pinning them against John’s hip with a satisfied snort. John bucked in the bed, trying to find leverage somewhere. “That’s enough, Captain,” Moran purred.

No. John Watson was a fighter, he was a soldier, he was a scrapper, he was not someone that surrendered. And he was the last person standing, or lying, between Moran and Sherlock and he would not let him get past. John Watson would fight to the death to protect Sherlock. John bit down into the fleshy part of the palm as hard as he could and wrenched his right hand free. He lunged for the call button on the wall, but fell short as Moran brought his forearm down on the inside of John’s elbow, connecting with the soft crease on the inside of the joint. John gave a yelp of pain and Moran’s hand clapped down across his mouth and nearly effortlessly restrained his arms as John tried to kick him through the sheets.

“No, no,” Moran murmured, releasing John’s hands to slam a fist into his ribcage. John screamed against the palm, his breath leaving in an excruciating hiss as Moran captured his wrists, pinning them back against his sternum. Finding air was difficult and he panted, struggling to breathe against the pain; he definitely ruptured his stitches. Fresh sweat broke out across his brow and he clenched his jaw, forcing his eyes to focus on Moran. “Shhh,” Moran shushed him gleefully. “Shh, shh. You don’t want to wake sleeping beauty.”

John grunted, twisting his wrists. Why wasn’t Sherlock awake? Sherlock never slept. He never stayed asleep. He woke at the drop of a pin. Sherlock… No, how did Moran get in here? Surely Mycroft had men on the door. He wouldn’t have left them unguarded, wouldn’t have left Sherlock unguarded.

“If you wake him now, I’ll just have to kill him,” Moran smiled, grinned, grimaced all at once. Why wasn’t anyone in the hospital working? Where was the nurse? Surely his monitors must be setting off alarms. Where was the harsh beeping sound of his cardiac monitor? His sats monitor? Why was it completely dark in the hallway? “Now, John.” The toothy grin dropped into a pout. “What am I going to do with you?”

Insanity. That was all John could see. There was nothing behind the dark eyes but pure madness. A perfect mirror of his brother. One strapped him in a vest of semtex and tried to blow him up just to watch Sherlock suffer; John had shot him in the head. This one… This one had actually blown them up, shot out John’s shoulder, tortured… Insanity. He winced as Moran’s fingers tightened on his cheek, his thumb pressed up into the soft tissue under his jaw, pressure point, tilting John’s head back on the pillow.

“Look at those bruises.” Moran made a soft humming noise. “Gorgeous.” John shuddered and fixed his gaze on a point in the ceiling. “I’d love to see the damage we did to your useless, broken shoulder. I bet it’s beautiful.” John was actively trying to keep his muscles from locking in pain, trying to keep his head. Moran eased the pressure from John’s chin, narrowing his eyes when John didn’t move. “You know it’s rude not to interact with your well-wishers.”

Moran’s weight shifted, putting pressure on John’s sternum, crushing the air from him until John relented and met the man’s stare. “You don’t get to be rude to me,” Moran chided, his face shifting sharply from eerily saccharine sweet to vicious in the blink of an eye. “You, you!” Moran snarled; his face now only inches from John. “You took the only person I cared about. You took my family!” John took a heavy breath against the hand, his body humming with the tension of staying conscious, of continuing to breathe, of choking back the bile rising in his throat. Moran’s jaw clenched as his face warped into a calmer version of rage. “I hit your shoulder last time.” Moran sucked in a breath through his nose. “You know I don’t miss. You’ve seen my file. You know it.”

John watched him warily, swallowing hard then giving the slightest nod.

“And my specialty is the head shot. I was distracted. I was…” Moran’s head tilted coolly. “Affected by watching you murder my brother.”

John grunted a small objection and winced as Moran leaned onto his chest again.

“No. You don’t get to argue that point. I saw you,” Moran spat with rage. “I _watched_ you.” He glared at John. “You pulled the trigger, killed him in cold blood. And I made the mistake. I made one mistake. And I aimed for your heart.” John keened against the palm, battling to find some much needed oxygen. Moran glared. “I should have known that you don’t have one either.” He relaxed back again, allowing John to breathe for a few seconds. “I should have stuck with the head shot. That is my skill. Cut out the brain, kill the mark.”

John’s vision swam for a few excruciating breaths as he tried to find some semblance of calm, of logic, of plan, of anything other than the pain that was coursing through him. He blinked at Moran, furrowing his brow. What. What is it you want?

Moran’s mouth twitched. “You don’t know do you? Too abstract for your mercenary mind?” He cast his eyes to Sherlock and back to John. “Head shot,” he murmured.

It clicked. It clicked and John understood. He’d been asking what Moran wanted, why Sherlock, why this game, why everything? Torture. Retribution. And eye for an eye. The oldest rule in the book. He took Moran’s; Moran would take his. But the twist was that he had to watch. Moran would get to watch John’s face as Sherlock was killed to satisfy his voyeuristic revenge. John felt his blood run cold. Moran’s expression morphed into a pleasant surprise, an eureka expression as he knew John understood. “Oh!” he mocked.

John gritted his teeth. No. No, that wouldn’t happen. It couldn’t happen. He lurched against Moran’s hold again; anything to garner just a few inches of movement. Moran chuckled and released John’s face in favor of a forearm against his throat. John barked out an objection before his air cut off. “Here’s how this works, Captain,” Moran loomed over him. “I have this lovely medication. Injection really. Easy to add to your IV.” John sputtered, a torturous wheeze pulling out of him. “It’s only a paralytic. You won’t feel a thing. Should wear off in an hour or two if I have the dose right.”

No. No, no, no. He could feel the pressure, the burning in his lungs, the primal urge for air, but John couldn’t seem to muster the strength to free his hands. Moran chuckled. “I’m quite sure it’s correct. And with you all happy putty, you get to watch. Nothing so elegant as a bullet in the head for Sherlock, no. I’ve something a little more entertaining for him. But something you’ll enjoy.” The sound of blood pounding in his ears became the only sound in the room as Moran watched, holding the pressure, suffocating him slowly. Clearly not to kill him, just enough so he’d pass out. John gritted his teeth and fought for consciousness. It was a losing battle.

There was a flicker of movement, the smallest oscillation of a shadow in the otherwise silent room. And John Watson saw it in the fraction of the second before it happened. The glimmer of the thick copper wire as it flashed past his face. And Moran arched back, his mouth dropping open in a soundless scream as his fingers clawed at the wire around his neck. John heaved a breath, his own airway freed as Moran’s was crushed under the garrote. His body rebelled, the repressed sensations of pain and hypoxia crashing through him as he doubled over on his side and retched once. He clutched at his left side, putting pressure against the bleeding there, bracing against the fractures.

Agony. That’s what it was. Every wound, every suture, every breath screaming for attention loud enough that John felt his vision grey. He gritted his teeth and pushed himself back onto his back, partially for the sake of his breathing, more for the grisly pleasure of watching Moran die. What he didn’t expect was the face that appeared over Moran’s shoulder.

Standing resolutely erect, arms drawing firmly and rigidly down toward his sides, hands clenching polished ebony handles, one knee unerringly digging into Moran’s lower spine, and wearing a ferociously merciless and cold expression was Mycroft Holmes. It was over in seconds. Efficient, silent, ruthless. Moran didn’t stand a chance. With a slight scowl, Mycroft released the garrote and let the body slump to the floor. He smoothly coiled the wire in his gloved hands and slipped it into a silk pouch before tucking it into his breast pocket. He folded his hands together primly at his waist and turned toward the door. With the smallest tilt of his chin, two suits noiselessly removed the lifeless body from the room.

John stared. His stomach rebelled again, his breath caught, but he steadied himself and stared. Mycroft turned half-way back into the room, his eyes flitting down, and finding some imaginary piece of lint on the lapel of his jacket, Mycroft tutted, rolled his eyes and removed the offensive speck with his thumb and forefinger. “Ah,” he murmured as the nurse appeared. Ah, as if nothing had transpired. Ah, as if he’d just noticed someone approaching. “I think you’ll find that the good Doctor has ruptured his sutures,” Mycroft said calmly. “And that someone has tampered with his analgesic pump, if you wouldn’t consider repairing that first?”

John’s mouth hung open slightly, trying to slow his breathing to a level that didn’t send licks of pain through his chest. He watched Mycroft cautiously, following his movements and words with tentative unease, the adrenaline fading and his wariness leaving him trembling. “Mycroft?” He finally managed to croak. Mycroft, what the fuck?

Mycroft turned his gaze from the nurse to John, and for a moment, John deeply regretted drawing attention to himself. Mycroft studied him, his scrutiny flicking across John’s face before arching a single brow. “I think you’ll find, Doctor Watson, that when you wake again, the light of a new day chases away the shadows of the night.” What? Something that resembled a smile flit across his face and Mycroft’s voice dropped low and even, “Let your plans be dark, John.”

John’s brow furrowed in confusion. What? He blinked rapidly then heavily as a warm, torpid weight spread through his limbs. Oh. The aching eased. The harshness blurred at the edges. Mycroft… He was still watching, like he was waiting for something. Lethargic, that was the word. John’s brain sluggishly noted the wonderful feel of narcotic as it passed through his body. Oh. Analgesic, his brain churned. Soporific. Sedative. Hyp… hypno…


	8. Part VIII: Essential in War

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU - reversing the roles from the fall; John falls, Sherlock is left. How do you re-establish home?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. I've established somewhere that I have a horrible relationship with John Watson. It's equal parts fascination and empathy, and I just like to push him to the breaking point. Awful things have happened. So clearly, nothing is going to slot right back into place. This is still pretty dark. I mean... I think you all know that now. But the physical torture is kinda done. Emotional torture... Well... You have been warned. I'll add any tw's that people feel are needed:
> 
> tw: PTSD  
> tw: violent outburst  
> tw: nightmares  
> tw: Mycroft remains an interfering big bag of dicks (but really that's why we love him)
> 
> In this chapter: all of the sequences in italics are dreams or texts (texts are signed). And as always, thank you to Sociy for the prompt that started this and thank you to Reichy, my beta buns. I think I did actually kill Reichy with this one. She sent a video. I think it may be a ransom video, but there's no monetary demands yet, so I don't know what to do. Definitely taking 10 chapters if not more. I'm halfway through writing 9, and it won't finish it.
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> **"Secret operations are essential in war; upon them the army relies to make its every move."**  
>  ~Sun Tzu, The Art of War

Sherlock closed the door and watched John’s back as he trudged laboriously up the stairs. Three stairs from the top, John wavered, stumbling slightly and Sherlock dropped the bags, scrambling to reach his side. John caught the banister and waved Sherlock off, resuming his achingly slow progress. But Sherlock hovered by his side, his hand poised just over John’s shoulder, waiting, afraid to make contact.

“I’m fine, Sherlock,” John whispered. Reaching the sitting room, he shrugged out of his coat and tugged the Velcro of his shoulder sling open. He winced as his left arm was freed.

Sherlock watched the process with growing concern. “John,” he stuck his hand out to catch the sling before it hit the floor. John, you are not fine. John, what happened? John shook his head and eased himself down into his chair with a grunt. Sherlock frowned and collected the discarded jacket from the floor. He caught his lower lip between his teeth as he contemplated the back of John’s head. “Tea?” he offered hesitantly.

John sighed and nodded, not bothering to turn. He could feel Sherlock’s sharp gaze burning holes through the back of his bruised skull. It was a near constant thing since Sherlock had finally woken the morning after the fight. It was a permanent question mark, bouncing between them, knocking them askew, upsetting their attempts at balance and finding their footing. Sherlock saw but wouldn’t ask about the bruises, not the older ones and not the fresh ones. John couldn’t bring himself to doubt that Sherlock was in something akin to a coma that night. Surely he hadn’t slept in the preceding days, and it would have left him in a peri-hibernation. And now they were locked into their own, unique, hesitant orbit.

John kept his left arm tucked against his side; an old habit resurrected out of necessity, but persisting due to muscle memory. He winced and moved his right hand restlessly against the arm of the chair, his chair. His chair, worn in to fit his shape, suit his comfort; his place in this chaotic flat and in this overwhelmingly noisy city and in this cruel excuse for a lifetime. His chair. Unchanged. And he wasn’t sure he fit in it anymore. He took a deep breath through his nose and winced; damn he smelled like hospital.

It took more effort than he wanted to admit, but he managed to push himself out of the cradle of his armchair. The unintentional groan that escaped him as he pulled his shoulders back drew Sherlock’s immediate attention. “John?”

He waved him off with a weak gesture. “I’m going to take a shower.” He felt horrendously dirty. Filth ground in through his wounds and scars that was bone deep and it made him feel weary.

“Are you sure? With your sutures…”

“I need to…” John shook his head. Sherlock wouldn’t understand the feeling. Hospital smells meant work, meant injury and death, meant pain. And he wanted to scrub his skin free of all of it. “I reek of betadine and hibiscrub. It’s probably bothering you as much as it is me.”

“I’ll give you a hand,” Sherlock offered.

“No.” John flinched at how quickly he’d responded and the deep flush that Sherlock now wore. It wasn’t Sherlock’s fault, but he didn’t need any, didn’t want anyone around right now. He could manage his bandages. “Sherlock, no, thank you. I’ll be fine. Where, where did the spare bandages go?”

Sherlock’s expression was a worn out, sad impression of a smile. “I left the bags downstairs, I’ll just…”

John swallowed and nodded, waiting for Sherlock to disappear down the stairs before struggling out of his jumper. He left it draped over the back of his chair and accepted the pack of supplies Sherlock held out. “Thanks,” he muttered and made his way into the bathroom. With the door closed, John caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror and exhaled heavily. God he looked like shit. He looked how he felt.

He turned on the shower taps and waited for the steam to blur his reflection before stripping out of his clothes. The movements made his joints creak and were it not for the sutures, he’d have opted for a hot soak in the tub instead. He peeled off layers of gauze and tape, shedding them on the floor without much thought to clean up. With just the dry-dressings on, he stepped into the shower, letting the heat and wet slough off a layer of grime. The only products in the shower were Sherlock’s, but soap was soap, and he cautiously worked the lather across the stains on his skin. He knew better than to scrub his stitches, or let them take a direct blast from the jets, but damn it was tempting. Shampooing his hair was a one-handed undertaking and a painful reminder of the number of times he’d been knocked in the head. But it was worth it to run his fingers against his scalp and not feel grit.

It didn’t occur to him that he’d brought nothing to change into until he was turning off the taps. Great. But when he pulled back the shower curtain, a neat pile of pajamas were folded beneath a clean towel. He sighed fondly, Sherlock. He pulled on the pants and the flannel pajama pants, cataloguing the bruises on his knees and thighs – none were actually serious, no bleeding, no need for any bandages. He straightened and set to work on patching his side and his shoulder. Small blessings, the dry-dressings had held up in the shower and all he needed to do was replace them, his shoulder was only something that needed a dressing in the front, and his back hadn’t taken much of a beating in the grand scheme of things.

He was tempted to shave. The three-day stubble was starting to itch, but after the shower and bandages, his hands weren’t as steady as he’d like. Besides, with the bruising around his jaw and lip and left eye, he’d be better off waiting for the swelling to go down. John struggled into the vest and long-sleeved tee and tried to square his shoulders before emerging. He could put on a brave face; he was good at that at least.

Sherlock appeared from the kitchen and handed him two tablets and a fresh cup of tea. “Here,” he said softly.

John squinted at the pills. “What are these?”

Sherlock gave him an irritated frown. “Magic beans, John.”

John snorted. “Ta.” That was more like it. That was his Sherlock. The mother hen act had been a bit grating, but the sarcasm, that was a form of affection John could tolerate. He downed the pills and crossed the room to settle back in his chair. His chair. It fit better now. And the fire, Sherlock must have built a fire, cast a warm glow around the room. He heard the small sigh from Sherlock, but opted to ignore it in favor of sipping his tea and sinking into the chair.

“Do you mind?” Sherlock asked, brandishing his violin.

“Please.” John shook his head. “Couldn’t sleep now if I tried.”

Sherlock hummed and with a flourish, settled his violin against his neck. “I doubt that,” he murmured. John sipped his tea and watched Sherlock’s back, content to just listen. After a while, he set the mug on the side table and scratched his toes against the rug, letting his eyes fall shut. He felt pleasantly warm and fuzzy, a heavy sensation settling in his limbs. Maybe it should have alarmed him to realize that Sherlock had given him something more than just an analgesic, but John couldn’t even find the wherewithal to be surprised. The music softened and slowed, lulling him into a doze.

 

~o~

 

Greg glanced at his mobile before answering it. Unknown number generally meant one very specific person. “Mycroft.”

“Ah, Detective Inspector, is now a good time?”

Greg frowned. It was going on half seven and he had hoped to be out of the office by now. Was it ever a good time? “Good time for what exactly?”

“Just a short conversation.”

He glanced around his office, suddenly worried that one of Mycroft’s cars would appear in the bullpen. “Over the phone, yeah?”

He could nearly see the smug smile on Mycroft’s face, “I assure you, Gregory, that were it necessary, I would visit in person. However, this is a brief consultation and I have an impending audience that cannot be delayed.”

“Right,” Lestrade muttered. “So…”

“It has come to my attention that the staffing levels in the Met CID have been appallingly low in recent months.”

Greg scratched at the back of his neck. “I am sorely aware.”

“In the current economic climate and with the pay scale offered, applications have been down, applicants have been,” Mycroft paused diplomatically, “inadequate, and many in house promotions have been ill-considered. I find this all quite unfortunate and rather unsound.”

“Yeah, you and me both,” Greg grumbled.

“I have been informed that the branch has suddenly found the extra funding and authorization for an additional detective constable.”

“Mycroft,” Greg growled.

“No time for training or up-skilling really, must be filled promptly or the approval might vanish as quickly. But I have it on good authority that your DCI has someone in mind and will likely be dropping in to discuss the matter with you rather urgently.”

“Mycroft!” Greg snapped.

“Perhaps…” Mycroft’s voice dropped of, pausing for dramatic effect in a way that left Greg with the pressing desire to punch him. “Perhaps even right now.”

“Lestrade!”

Greg spun towards his door, covering the mouthpiece of the phone on instinct. “Chief Inspector?” He frowned at his phone and contemplated hanging up out of pure annoyance, but the call had already been disconnected. “Smarmy git,” he muttered and smiled wanly at his boss. “Sir?”

“I need a favor, Lestrade.”

“Ok, what can I do?”

“That kid out of Manchester, Carlson, he’s your nephew, yes?”

Greg nodded slowly. That smug arsehole. When he got his hands on Mycroft Holmes, he’d strangle him. Slap that pompous smile right off his face. “Yes, sir.”

“I need you to get him down here.”

Play dumb. You can exact revenge on that pretentious bastard later, maybe shred the leather interior of his car, or poke holes in each and every one of his umbrellas. “Is there a meeting, sir?”

“No, Lestrade. Down here to work. Permanently. As soon as possible. Now. Yesterday even.”

“Uh,” he shifted from foot to foot. “I could, I suppose, I mean… Tomorrow? He might come in tomorrow?”

“Perfect. We need some fresh blood around here, and he was making a name for himself up there. Starts tomorrow. Settled.”

Greg nearly choked. “Doesn’t he need to… Agree to it?”

“That’s why you’re going to talk to him. Tell him he starts tomorrow.”

Greg nodded impulsively. “I’ll… yeah… I’ll talk to him.”

“Good. Start now.” The DCI turned and slammed the door in his wake.

Lestrade looked from the door to his phone and back to the door. Then he groaned; his brother-in-law was going to kill him.

_Sherlock, tell your brother that he’s an utter ponce! –Lestrade_

There. That made him feel slightly better. Even if Sherlock didn’t pass on the message in so many words, Mycroft had probably… Certainly tapped his mobile.

_While I’m quite sure he’s deserving of this scorn, I will not degrade myself so far as to contact him so superfluously. Feel free to reiterate your sentiment the next time you see him. –SH_

Greg snorted, collected his jacket, and headed for home.

 

~o~

 

Sherlock smiled to himself and placed his phone on the kitchen worktop. He felt more himself with that simple text than he had in the past two years. Smug, yes. But deservedly so. Mycroft was categorically unable to keep his fat, meddling fingers from other people’s lives, and certainly, something had left him feeling entitled to Lestrade’s. But Lestrade wasn’t quite like the others, like the feeble minded ones, the grunts, the minions, the goldfish. Lestrade was… Different. And maybe that was where Mycroft’s fascination with the man had stemmed. Though, his continued interest was something new in itself. That Sherlock tolerated Lestrade, assisted him, accepted his presence at delicate times, had some perverse respect for him was unique to the man. In a different life, one where Sherlock was ordinary, Lestrade was the older sibling he would have wanted. One hand was all it took to tick off the people Sherlock could trust, saving his thumb for John Watson. Hell, John Watson could be his entire hand, his arm, his skeleton, his skin.

Sherlock turned off the light in the kitchen and crossed to his chair, pausing at John’s side. Somehow, John had managed to tuck his feet into the space between the arm of the chair and the cushion, wedging himself into the cradle of the frame so his head could drop over his right shoulder to rest on the back of the chair. The union jack pillow was bunched in his lap, his left arm resting across it. Even half-conscious, John was protecting his left shoulder again. Sherlock winced at how small John looked. With a heavy sigh, he shook out one of the blankets and draped it over his friend.

By Sherlock’s calculations, it had only taken thirty minutes for John to fall asleep in his chair. Not that the zolpidem had hurt the process, but it wouldn’t keep him asleep, and he would regret the time in the chair for all the cricks in his neck that he’d wake with. Neck, right side of his back, left shoulder, right hip. Sherlock’s mouth twitched, maybe he should wake him, make him move to a bed, or the couch; even the couch would be an improvement. Except John looked so small, and so old. No, not old, but tense. Constant lines of tension around his eyes, at the corners of his mouth, his brow. What should be laugh lines and relaxed in sleep were deep grooves of strain, constant vigilance. No doubt, John Watson hadn’t truly slept in two years. Then again, neither had Sherlock.

Sherlock brushed his fingers against John’s temple, carefully avoiding the abrasions and bruising. Whomever had been interrogating him was right handed. Sherlock flinched and backed away to his chair. Information he did not want. Maybe he’d delete it. No. He didn’t delete John. He never deleted John. Even though the backs of his eyelids were painted with John’s fall every time he closed his eyes, he wouldn’t delete John. He steepled his fingers beneath his chin and settled in to watch, to catalogue, to really process. The frown was churlish when he noted the fresh bruises again. Around his jaw and throat, his left wrist, his cheeks; they weren’t areas where delayed bruising was expected or even possible. That didn’t make sense. John wouldn’t talk about it, about any of it. But… Sherlock shook his head as if to rid himself of the fleeting thoughts. John was home. Sherlock was home. This. This could be home for them again.

_He repositioned himself in the chair, feeling the blood start to flow to his feet again. Sitting for so long was terrible for his circulation, but it only took so much energy to kinetically shift the stiffness in his muscles. He should have moved to the couch. The view of John though, that’s why he was in the chair. Where was John? His ears pricked at the sound of the kettle switching off. But John wasn’t in the kitchen. “John?”_

_He pushed out of the chair and ran straight into the road. He dodged the car, the bus, the reaching hands. “John!” No, the sun was in his eyes. He raised a hand against the glare and found him on the ledge. “John, No!”_

_He hit the front doors of the hospital at a sprint, pushing them open onto the roof. “John, please!” His arms were out, fingers reaching for the back of John’s jacket. “Please! Come back!” He could feel the brown, waxed canvas under his fingertips. The cracking explosion of the shot sprayed him with red mist as his hand closed around empty space, and John was falling. John was falling and he couldn’t reach him. “JOHN!”_

Sherlock’s body pitched forward as he startled himself awake. He blinked rapidly before he understood the shadowy glow of the banked fire. He was in Baker Street. He was in the living room. He was, remarkably, still in his chair. And so was John. He took a long, slow breath to bring his heart rate under control and pressed three fingers to his temple. He hated that dream. Despised. It should be done and gone; John was alive, he was back. Detested. Everything in greyscale except the blood. Loathed. Every night, it never changed. Abhorred.

John stirred, his brow furrowing, shoulders tensing, his chest straining with increasingly painful inhalations. Sherlock held his breath and watched, hoping he hadn’t woken John. The tense shoulders spread to rigid muscle in his arms, legs, and back; then John folded in on himself, curling into a tight ball and trembling. “John,” Sherlock breathed. He was out of his chair and hovering in front of John, hovering and indecisive. He didn’t know what to do. Wake him? He’d have to find some patch of skin not covered with bruises before he could touch him. “John,” he repeated, slightly louder.

The noise that shattered the stillness of the room could have been the slam of a neighbor’s front door, the crash of a falling vase, the blast of a backfiring car, a clap of thunder overhead, the burst of one of the local lads’ firecrackers, or the report of a pistol. All seemed equally likely in that fraction of a second as Sherlock swivels his head on instinct, glancing towards the windows. And with a jarring lurch, Sherlock felt his feet leave the ground and his spine slam into floor in their place. He threw his weight to the side, tumbling a complete rotation of limbs and bodies, before finding himself immobilized on the rug, the unmistakable pressure of a hand closing around his throat. It took more effort than Sherlock anticipated to force his body lax against the impulse to struggle, but he did. He sagged, opening his palms in a universal sign of surrender. “John?” he whispered carefully.

John looked wild, feral, panicked, straddling Sherlock’s hips, his eyes wide and unseeing as his right hand remained resolutely on Sherlock’s neck. And he was trembling and sweating and panting, his free hand searching for a sidearm that no longer existed.

“John, Please,” Sherlock forced his voice low, calm, steady. Panic attack, nightmare, PTSD. He would have been fine if he’d woken naturally. “John, look at me. Look at where you are.” Sherlock didn’t dare move, even as the fingers flexed minutely against his airway. “You are safe, John. You’re home. And you’re safe. Look at me.”

John blinked. He blinked again. And his eyes found focus on Sherlock’s face. His pupils constricted as his brow furrowed. “Wh-what?” He sucked in a shaky breath as he really saw Sherlock. “Sherlock?”

Sherlock cautiously tapped the back of John’s hand with his fingertips, and John glanced down. A choked off shout erupted from his throat as he realized what he was doing, and John threw himself backwards, retreating until his back collided with his chair. Still he receded, drawing his knees up to chest and folding into as small a space as possible. Sherlock cleared his throat before pushing himself up to sit, opting for the floor in front of his chair. He tugged at the cuffs of his robe absently as he watched John struggled to regain control of his breathing. “Alright?”

John’s eyes flicked up from a spot on the floor and he stared at Sherlock for a long moment. He swallowed and gave a sharp nod. Sherlock winced. Liar. Another crack from the street and John jumped, his eyes going wide before he clenched his jaw and rested his forehead against his knees.

“November fifth,” Sherlock muttered as he watched the tremors in John’s shoulders begin to subside. “I’d… I’d forgotten. Forgive me.”

It was a weak laugh, a snort really, but it sounded right coming from John. “You forgot?” he drew his head up to give Sherlock an incredulous look.

Sherlock waved his hand absently. “I’ve been preoccupied.”

John huffed out a laugh. “Oh yeah?”

Sherlock smirked. “You as well, I suspect.” He couldn’t contain the chuckle that bubbled up in response to John’s exasperated smile. And they were both snickering. Cautious shared laughter on the floor.

“Stop,” John finally choked out. “Stop, Sherlock. Laughing hurts.”

Sherlock did, flashing John a warm smile as he stood. “You probably shouldn’t sit on the floor.” John winced and accepted Sherlock’s extended hand, letting himself be pulled to his feet. “How’re the ribs? You didn’t injure yourself, did you?”

He watched as John slowly shifted, taking stock of his body before shaking his head no. “I… I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

Sherlock’s wry smile was purposely insulting. “Please.”

“Sherlock, I…”

He cut the man off with a wave. “Stop. You didn’t. I’m fine. You should get some sleep.”

John snorted. “Right.” He reached out and brushed his fingers across the arm of his chair.

“If you’re not going to sleep, may I suggest you not sleep on the couch?” Sherlock raised a brow. “It’s not ideal, but it’s better than the chair given the state of your neck and shoulder.”

John sighed heavily as though Sherlock’s request was near tyrannical. But he made his way to the couch, settling just off center of the massive thing. Sherlock stooped to collect the blanket and pillow John’s movement had left on the floor and stepped on the table to cross over. He held the pillow out and glared until John accepted it, then without preamble, he dropped onto the couch and drew John’s legs across his lap. His arms snapped in a flourish and he managed to drape the blanket over both of their legs and Sherlock settled his palms on John’s shins. John raised a brow, “Comfortable?”

John flinched at the series of rapid, staccato bursts of fireworks that lit the night. Sherlock smiled wanly and let his hands rest heavily on John’s legs, his thumb drawing firm, tight circles against the bone. “It’s agreeable,” he murmured.

John hummed an agreement of sorts and unclenched his fists, tipping his head back onto the pillow and closing his eyes.

With each successive firework, John jumped less, relaxed quicker, modulated his breathing so someone less observant wouldn’t notice the anxiety. Sherlock was not fooled, but he left John his small moments. “John?”

“I know,” John shifted, tension returning to his face. “Sherlock, but…” Sherlock saw the briefest cringe, the beginning of John shrinking back inside himself and it physically hurt. His thumb resumed the circles, grounding himself in the small, purposeful contact. John sighed and drew his legs back, shoving his toes under Sherlock’s thigh. “I just can’t. Not yet.”

Sherlock nodded again. It felt as thought he’d been slapped in the face. “Alright.”

 

~o~

 

Lestrade shifted the bags into one hand as he tugged the keys out of his jacket. It was a piece of crap flat, but it was close to the tube, on the right line for the Met, had parking, and was within spitting distance of a shop and pub. Plus, it wasn’t like he was ever home. He spared a sideways glance at the ‘Out of Order’ sign still taped to the elevator before heading up the narrow flight of stairs. Exercise was good for him, right? He sighed as he finally opened the door and stepped inside: home. The lights were out, but he could see the flickering of the tv in the sitting room. He locked the door, set the bags in the kitchen and crossed to the sitting room. “Teddy?”

He furrowed his brow for a second, then leaned over the back of the sofa and grinned. Passed out, poor kid. Greg reached across and gave his shoulder a gentle shake. “Teddy. Come on, Runt, you aren’t sleeping on the couch.”

Teddy jerked awake and blinked, taking an extra moment to recognize his surroundings. “Uncle Greg, sorry,” he rubbed his eyes as he pushed up to sitting. “I uh… I guess I fell asleep.”

“The match that boring, Runt?” Lestrade chuckled as he stepped back and turned on some lights.

Teddy smiled, standing and stretching stiffly. “Possibly.”

“You eat anything yet?”

Teddy shook his head. “I had plans too, but then I died of boredom.”

Greg scowled. “Not you too.”

“Hey,” Teddy chuckled. “You pawned him off on me.” He followed Greg into the small kitchen.

“I did, didn’t I?” Greg sighed. He pulled a pair of beer bottles out of the bag and popped the tops before handing one to Teddy. “Don’t tell your mum.”

Teddy actually laughed. “So I’m old enough to be a copper, to babysit your resident genius, to nearly get killed for Queen and country, but you don’t think I’m old enough to drink?”

“You look like you just got into a fight with the playground bully. Proper shiner, that one.”

Teddy smirked. “Playground bully?”

“Look, I managed to keep you in the divorce. I don’t want to change that.”

Teddy flushed slightly. “Don’t think that’ll happen.”

“I certainly hope not.”

Teddy shifted, cleared his throat. “Uncle Greg, I uh… Can I ask you something?”

“Sure,” he took a swig of his beer.

“That government bloke?”

“Yeah?”

“The kinda creepy one?”

“I know the one.”

“Did he?... Is… Do we have a protective detail at the moment?” Teddy winced at the counter top before glancing up again.

Greg felt the beginning of a smile tug at the corner of his mouth. “Why do you ask?”

“Because I bloody well saw them.” Teddy took a tentative sip of the beer. “That or I’ve gone a bit paranoid.”

Greg huffed out a laugh. “I can’t tell if I’m more concerned that you saw them or that they were seen.”

“I saw your detail, if it makes you feel better.”

“No,” Greg tipped his bottle at Teddy. “No, that worries me more. But yes, they’re there.”

“For how long?”

“Until we get him.” Greg frowned at nothing in particular.

“Oh.”

“How are you feeling?”

Teddy rubbed the back of his neck, a mannerism he’d clearly picked up from Lestrade. “I’m ok. Not sleeping great. But nothing broken yet.”

“You, you’d tell me if you weren’t ok, yeah?”

Teddy looked up sharply, “Yeah, of course I would.”

Greg nodded slowly. “Are you really getting bored?”

Teddy winced and nodded. “To tears.”

“Wanna come into the Met tomorrow?”

“Please!” Teddy grinned.

 

~o~

 

John dropped the file onto the coffee table with a smack. “No.” Sherlock’s ears pricked. What? That was not a normal John Watson response. He was normally reasonable with Mycroft, a go-between, sarcastic sure, but not bluntly negative. Certainly, emerging from a shower to find Mycroft occupying Sherlock’s chair was disconcerting. Yes, it was rude and pretentious and meddlesome and so irritatingly Mycroft. Sure, John was still healing, still jumpy, still not sleeping well, still frustrated, but this…

Both Sherlock and Mycroft turned to face him. “I’m sorry?” Mycroft raised a brow.

“I said no,” John stood briskly, turning to glare out the window. Sherlock furrowed his brow. This was not John, not his John, not normal John. John made logical decisions, he thought things through, he helped people, he cared about people, he was polite, and he didn’t turn down cases.

“I assure you this is rather standard, rank and file work,” Mycroft twisted the tip of his umbrella against the floor.

“Get out!” John barked as he rounded on them.

Sherlock felt the color drain from his face. John didn’t yell, not like that, not here, not in their home. Mycroft frowned. “Wherever Sherlock’s useless manners have disappeared to, I was rather hoping you’d retained yours. You were a solider.”

John went still, the lines of tension in his body drawn taught. Then the left corner of his mouth drew back into a dark approximation of a smile. He snorted out a laugh. Sherlock found himself wincing pre-emptively at the outburst that he knew had to follow. “Solider. I _was_ a solider. Queen and country, yeah?” John’s voice rose in volume with each word, picking up speed and venom. “I’m pretty fucking sure that I was invalided out the first time, if not unofficially the second time! I _AM_ a solider, Mycroft! I am NOT useless! And you will respect me when I tell you to get the bloody hell out of my god dammed home!”

“John,” Sherlock whispered. Stop. John, please. John, what’s wrong?

Mycroft interjected, “This is innocuous, non-invasive…”

“Get the hell out!” John yelled, dragging his hand across the breakfast table, knocking stacks of papers and books to the floor. Sherlock jumped slightly from where he sat in John’s chair. John, no. John, what are you doing? John, what’s wrong? What’s wrong? I don’t understand. He could feel the tension, the pain radiating off of John from across the room, but he didn’t see it, he couldn’t understand it.

Mycroft glanced to Sherlock, but his lips were pressed together with a firm denial. Mycroft sighed as he rose from Sherlock’s chair. “And here I thought, Sherlock was the one with a penchant for dramatics.”

“OUT!” John bellowed, picking up an empty glass and hurling it at the fireplace. It shattered against the mantle with enough force to spray shards at Sherlock’s feet.

Sherlock glanced down at the small, sharp, broken pieces before eying John as though he were made of the same glinting edges. “Mycroft,” he murmured, standing slowly, “Time for you to leave.” Sherlock kept himself between John and Mycroft, watching the exaggerated rise and fall of John’s chest, the restless clenching of his hands, and the way his narrowed gaze shot daggers at Mycroft’s retreating form.

He didn’t want to leave John on his own for long. Something was cracking through the smooth surface of John’s polished façade, unraveling the woolly knitted armor, jittering his steadfast hands, splintering John from the inside out. Sherlock needed to be sure Mycroft truly left, didn’t hover, didn’t interfere, didn’t upset the delicate comity they’d found in the past few days. Regardless, Sherlock entered the room cautiously when he returned. “John?”

John was standing in the kitchen, back to the sitting room, knuckles braced on the table, head bowed as his breath seemed to heave out of him. The body language alone kept Sherlock at a distance. John, what’s wrong? Talk to me. Say something. Say anything. After a moment, John raised his head, fixing his gaze at a spot near the refrigerator. “I’m… If you give me a sec…” He swallowed. “Tea?”

Tea? As though it were the answer to everything. The solution and the routine and the method and the balm. “I can-”

“NO!” John slammed his right fist into the wooden surface. “I’m not useless, Sherlock!”

Sherlock winced, “John.” I didn’t say that. No one said that. You’re not useless. You’re never useless. You’re everything. What do I do?!

“Non-invasive,” John snarled, his hand closing around the nearest item. He flung the plate against the sink backsplash. “Rank.” Another glass shattered. “And file!” A tea cup.

“John?” Sherlock whispered as their kitchen became a treacherous graveyard of ceramics. He didn’t dare get closer. He couldn’t stand back and let…

“Soldier!” John shouted. “I fucking spent two goddammed years!” A saucer, a piece of cutlery, a test tube. “How fucking dare he!”

“Please, John,” Sherlock took a cautious step towards the kitchen. Please, just look at me. We hate Mycroft. We both do. We both laugh at him. You laugh with me. Don’t listen to Mycroft. John, please.

“I’m not USELESS!” John screamed, chucking a crock of jam at the cabinets. The jar smashed on the wall, raspberry jam and glass fragments spattered across the counter and dripped onto the floor. Sherlock stared. Jam the color of blood, gelatinous like grey matter, gruesome spatter pattern in an echo of that morning. The morning. And he felt it in his chest like a fist to his solar plexus. But it was nothing compared to piercing stab the sound of John’s cry lanced into his head.

John’s legs gave out and he crumbled to his knees, his breath coming in short gasps between the pained sobs. Tremors raced up his spine and out along his arms as he folded in on himself, clutching tightly at his shoulder and dropping his forehead to his knees. Sherlock would swear the floor beneath his feet cracked and shifted, maybe the foundation itself had fractured. It would be the only thing to explain how unsteady his steps were to close the physical distance between himself and John. It could explain how he stumbled and fell, kneeling behind John. It might explain why John was shaking, why he was shaking, why the noise of the flat collapsing around them was so loud in his ears. Why everything looked broken. Why there was glass and blood everywhere. Why they were on the ground. Why John was hurt. Why. Why? “I don’t understand,” Sherlock whispered.

He curled forward, his chest curving along the unguarded bow of John’s back, his arms wrapping to clutch at John’s trembling wrists. If the ceiling caved in, he’d keep himself between John and rubble. He could feel every heave of John’s choked off sobs punching into his ribs, every shudder of his hands slicing into his palms, and he held on. He would leach the pain, consume it, soak it through his own skin just so John could walk away from this. “John, please.” He let his forehead drop into the vee of John’s neck and shoulder. The damp of sweat and panic and maybe his own tears mixing at the meet of skin and shirt collar, and it was cold, colder than John should ever be. “John.” John, please. This hurts. It hurts, John. You’re hurt. Just stop, John. Please stop. “Breathe, John.” Just breathe. Breathe. Breathe, John. John. Breathe. Please. John. John. John.


	9. Part IX: Vengeance Need Not Be Feared

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU - reversing the roles from the fall; John falls, Sherlock is left. Picking up the pieces slowly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. I've established somewhere that I have a horrible relationship with John Watson. It's equal parts fascination and empathy, and I just like to push him to the breaking point. Awful things have happened. So clearly, nothing is going to slot right back into place. Things are just starting to come together. This is still pretty dark. I mean... I think you all know that now. But the physical torture is kinda done. Emotional torture... Well... You have been warned. I'll add any tw's that people feel are needed:
> 
> tw: PTSD  
> tw: descriptions of death and drowning (it's really quite clinical, I promise)  
> tw: Mycroft remains an interfering big bag of dicks (but really that's why we love him... I dunno if this needs to be a tw tag, since really, that's who Mycroft is, but I'm leaving this up)
> 
> In this chapter: all of the sequences in italics are dreams or texts (texts are signed). And as always, thank you to Sociy for the prompt that started this and thank you to Reichy, my beta buns. Definitely taking 10 chapters if not more. I'm feeling that 10 might be a good place to stop. As always, feedback is totally welcome.
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> **"If an injury has to be done to a man it should be so severe that his vengeance need not be feared."**  
>  ~Machiavelli, The Prince

Lestrade grimaced at the body the divers dumped on the tarp-laden dock. Bloated and discolored, the body was devoid of clothing, but he could instantly recognize the bruising pattern of fetter marks on the wrists and ankles, and… Was that around the neck as well? He winced and pinched the bridge of his nose, heaving a sigh, “Jesus.”

He waited for the coroner to have a glance before bothering with questions. “What can you tell me?”

“Well, he’s dead,” the man said flatly as Lestrade’s phone began to ring.

“Fucking really? Thanks.” Lestrade pulled out his mobile. “Lestrade.”

“Detective Inspector.”

“No,” he responded flatly. “Absolutely not, Mycroft.”

“You haven’t even…”

“And the answer is no.”

“Gregory,” Mycroft purred.

“I’m busy,” he hissed, disconnecting the phone with a frown. He stuffed the phone into his pocket and turned back to the coroner. “For the love of God, tell me something other than he’s dead or so help me, I will throw you into the Thames.”

“Problems at home, boss?” the coroner flashed a mean smile.

Lestrade growled in response.

The coroner shrugged. “Fine. T.O.D is going to be hard to pin down, but I’m guessing it’s been at least three days, maybe ten at most. I’ll know better after the PM. Given the petechial haemorrhages here and in the eyes here, he didn’t die in the water.”

“No?” Lestrade shifted his weight. “So… The…,” he drew a finger across his own neck. “Ligature?”

“Asphyxiated. Strangled, probably.”

Lestrade sighed heavily. “Ok, do what you need to do then get him in the bus. Send me the divers when they’re warm and dry. Donovan?” he called. His phone was ringing again. Jesus that man was a pain in the arse. He answered the phone, said no, and hung it up without a second thought. It was only ten am and he was swearing without thought. What a fucking day.

“Boss?” Sally met him as he turned back toward the road.

His mouth pressed into a firm line, “There won’t be much of a scene, I can’t see what there is for us down here until we get the PM results and some sort of ID.”

“Right,” Sally nodded. “No prints?”

Lestrade snorted, “Not until the techs do their thing. Everything is a bit,” he waved his hands aimlessly. He’d seen them peeling back layers of destroyed skin to get a fingerprint before and it somehow made his stomach turn.

Sally cleared her throat, “Right. Anything we have to go on?”

“They’re telling me he wasn’t drowned. Looks like a strangulation. But I didn’t see much in the way of other injuries. Maybe a tattoo on his arm. Maybe a scar. We’ve no crime scene, we’ve no ID, we… Why are you looking at me like that, Sally?”

“It’s just that…” Donovan crossed her arms in irritation. “I didn’t really think I’d want to say this, but this sort of thing, it’s…” She sighed. “Where’s the freak when you need him?”

“Donovan,” he warned.

“Really, sir. It’s right up his alley. We could… We could probably use his help on this.”

Lestrade narrowed his gaze, “Who are you and what have you done with my Sargent?”

“Sir, your phone is ringing,” Donovan replied flatly.

“Just ignore it, it’ll go away.”

Is that what they taught you in school?” Sally smirked.

Greg snorted. “Look, you’ve the run down here. Get me the photos as soon as they’re available. Shouldn’t be more than another hour or two.”

“And… You’re back with us now, are you?”

He shook his head. Leave it to Donovan to point out that he’d been working two jobs for a few days. Had it only been a few days? Felt like months. “Yes, Donovan. I’m with ‘us’ and always have been.”

“You’re phone is ringing again.”

“I fucking… I know. Thanks. Sally. Here. Yes?”

Donovan chuckled. “No problem.”

“I’ll see what I can do about extra hands and then I’ll be at the Met.”

“You’ll be on the phone.”

Lestrade grumbled as he crammed his hands into his coat pockets. “Do your job, Donovan.”

“Sir, yes, sir.” Sally called to his back.

Lestrade made it another twenty feet before his mobile started ringing again. He heaved a sigh and looked up at the darkly overcast midday ceiling. “Why?” he muttered. With a shake of his head, he pulled the phone out, “Seriously, Mycroft, I’m fucking working right now. Would you piss off?”

There was a long pause from the other end, broken by an irritated sigh. “Mycroft? And here I thought so much better of you.”

That was actually worse. “Sherlock?”

“Lestrade.”

“Sherlock, if Mycroft is sitting there next to you, you may as well just hand over the phone now so I can hang up on him.”

“He’s not. Why would you think that?”

Greg could hear the smirk through the phone. “Look, Sherlock, I’m sort of in the middle of a crime scene. Was there something you needed?”

“Crime scene?”

“Sherlock, you called me.”

“Ah, yes, that.” Sherlock paused.

Greg sighed. “What’s wrong?” When Sherlock didn’t answer, Lestrade shifted anxiously. “Sherlock?”

“Can we… talk?”

Lestrade pulled the phone away from his ear and stared at it for a moment. “What?”

Sherlock huffed. “I don’t like repetition.”

“Ah…” Greg scratched at the back of his neck. “I… Sure?”

“I can come to you,” Sherlock said crisply. “Look at this crime scene while I’m at it.”

“Sherlock,” Lestrade warned.

“No bother. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

“Sher-” Greg pulled the phone away from his ear again and glared at it. “Little shit hung up on me,” he muttered. “Donovan!” he shouted. “Change of plans!”

 

~o~

 

John rubbed at his eyes with the heel of his right hand as he trudged toward the sitting room. He felt groggy and slow, and sleeping in Sherlock’s room wasn’t something he wanted to make a habit of. He was having trouble remembering why he agreed to sleep there in the first place, but he’d yet to make it up the stairs for sleep. Somehow, sleep had been sneaking up on him, claiming him before he’d a chance to think about where he was or where he belonged. Like in his chair, on the couch, face down on the table after food, and last night… He vaguely remembered shouting at Mycroft; something he was exceedingly sure did not happen to Mycroft with any frequency. He had the fleeting impression that he’d wanted to sleep on the kitchen floor, maybe Sherlock found it easier to deposit him in there rather than mounting another set of stairs. The night was all a bit fuzzy. John did, however, have a crisp recollection of the nightmares that woke him around three, woke him every night actually.

He sniffed and cracked his neck from side to side. One week. He’d been back for one goddamned week. Ten days if he wanted to be technical, but Manchester didn’t count. Less than twenty-four hours in Baker Street; less than twelve at the Tobacco Dock, he shuddered; three days in hospital; and now the dawn of day four back in Baker Street. Well, less like dawn and more like mid-morning. And he couldn’t sleep. Not like a normal person, not in a normal place, not normal.

He headed for the bathroom first. Going through the morning routine, the luxury of running water and self-care without the intrusion of sand and dirt or nurses. He felt old. The aches in his shoulder were a familiar echo of the last time he’d been post-injury and purposeless, but thankfully, he’d avoided the infection this time. The swelling was receding, the bruises had peaked and were now fading into a yellow-brown, and he could breathe without sharp stabs of pain from his healing rib. He had resisted any strong analgesics on discharge, maybe on habit; he didn’t like having any morphine-based drugs in the flat. Whatever prescription Sherlock had filled on his behalf was only consumed in the evenings, only when he was half-dead, half-asleep, and too distracted to object. And he really didn’t want to need them. Clever… Doctors always were the worst patients.

When John emerged, Sherlock was on the phone, pacing restlessly by the window, so John headed into the kitchen and turned on the kettle. Tea… Easy routine. Not demanding. He pulled down two mugs and separated two tea bags. When the kettle clicked off, he scalded the cups and left the bags to seep while he pulled milk out of the fridge. He added milk to his, two spoonfuls of sugar to Sherlock’s, and carried both into the sitting room. “Who was that on the phone?”

Sherlock glanced up, surprised that John was there. “What? That? Nothing. No one. Lestrade. Tea?”

John furrowed his brow, but offered the mug to Sherlock. “Lestrade?”

“Mmn, some new case. Might need my help.” Sherlock took a quick sip of the tea.

John tilted his head slightly. “And?”

“And what?” Sherlock practically twitched with energy.

John gave him an indulgent smile. “And are you going to go?”

Sherlock seemed to hesitate. “I…”

“You want to,” John offered.

“But. Are you… Alright? Last night…”

John sighed. Idiot. “I’ll go get dressed.”

“John,” Sherlock blurted out, taking an aborted step towards the stairs. “You… If you don’t want to… I mean… With Mycroft…”

John shrugged his right shoulder. “Sherlock, I’m not letting you out of my sight until…” Until what? Until Mycroft admitted that Moran was dead? Until John was sure, SURE he was gone? Until the protective detail was lifted? Just… Until.

“And you’re alright?” Sherlock tried to give him a smile. A small one. “Your arm?”

“I’ll wear the bloody sling, alright?” He turned and started up the stairs, muttering as he went. “I shoot with my right anyway.”

It felt strange putting on his old clothes. He’d run out of things from his duffle, so now he would have to raid the old dresser. He’d put on muscle in the past two years, but it hadn’t seemed to stress his clothing size any, and he was grateful it all still fit. The last thing he needed was to go shopping. He nearly groaned as he realized that they’d be needing food and cleaning supplies and basic domestic things and Sherlock would probably just assume it’d appear. And John didn’t want Mycroft delivering things to the flat. Mycroft was on his shit list at the moment.

He dressed carefully. Jeans were easy enough, but pulling on a simple vest was uncomfortable enough that he was forced into an innocuous plaid button down and old burgundy cardigan. Ah well, he felt… Normal. And he couldn’t decide if that was comfortable or chafing.

He met Sherlock in the living room as the man was twisting his scarf into place. Sherlock grinned and raised a brow in a way that John couldn’t keep from smiling back. “Ready?”

“Ah…” John shrugged. “I’ll need my coat.”

Sherlock smirked and handed John his gun. “You will.”

John checked the clip and primed it, ensuring the safety was on before tucking it in the back of his waistband, handle to his right. Sherlock thrust the sling under his nose and John had to roll his eyes. “Really?”

Sherlock gave him a scolding look. “You said you would.”

He sighed and slipped it on, adjusting the Velcro until it felt somewhat comfortable. “Happy?”

“Ecstatic,” Sherlock hummed, tossing him his black jacket.

John smiled at it almost reverently before managing to drape it over his left shoulder with his right arm stuffed into the sleeve. He looked up in time to have Sherlock wrap a scarf around his neck for him. John raised a brow, “Cold out, is it?”

“We’re headed for the north bank. It’ll be windy. Might even rain. You’ll be insufferable if you end up with a cough right now.”

John gave Sherlock a half smile. “Of course.” God, he’d missed this.

Sherlock’s gaze turned serious. “You’re sure you’re alright? After last night, I would understand if you… If you weren’t feeling up for it.”

John flinched. “That won’t happen again.”

“John.”

“I have it under control,” he insisted. “I wouldn’t be better off sitting around with nothing to do.”

Sherlock scrutinized his face before giving a curt nod. “Alright.”

“You know where we’re going, so…” John didn’t have to finish; he did have to struggle to lock the door after Sherlock bounded down the stairs and hailed a taxi to the curb.

“Come on, John.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

 

~o~

 

Teddy crammed his hands in his jacket pockets and wrinkled his nose. The weather in London was worse than Manchester.

“Alright?” Lestrade asked, casting him a sidelong glance.

“Gloves,” he shrugged back. “Didn’t think about it, but I’ll probably need to get myself a pair.”

Greg gave him a wry smile. “You’ll be losing them more often than wearing them.”

“Sherlock wears leather gloves,” Teddy grinned.

“Yeah, and the day you can do what he does, you can flounce around the crime scenes without latex gloves and lick the soil samples,” he chided. “I’d rather you tag on with Dr. Watson. He’s a much more sensible bloke.”

“Sensible?” Teddy raised a brow. Sensible wasn’t a word Teddy had come to associate with John Watson. “Does he not wear leather gloves in your crime scenes?”

“He doesn’t cheer for Man United.”

Teddy laughed and Greg ruffled his hair in response. “Ah, shove off.”

“He’s solid and quick on the draw, and he speaks a language that everyone can understand. You’d learn as much from him as from Sherlock.” Lestrade bobbed his head toward the road. “Here we go then.”

Teddy watched as Sherlock nearly exploded out of the back of the taxi, striding confidently down the slope to their position on the pavement. John seemed to struggle a bit, awkwardly emerging after paying the fare, then taking his time to make the same walk, settling a step behind Sherlock, looking innocuous, plain, benign in his quiet way. Teddy knew better, but his brain was struggling to consolidate the John Watson that laughed at a psychopath with the amiable, buttoned up man in a cardigan.

Lestrade stuck out his hand, “John, it’s good to see you up and about. And looking better.”

John gave a small smile as he returned the gesture. “Good to be up.” He shot Teddy a slightly wider smile. “Teddy, looking better yourself too.” Teddy shook his hand warmly.

Sherlock made an impatient noise. “Yes, yes. Everyone is better. How wonderful. Lestrade, where is this crime scene?”

“Uh,” Greg scratched the back of his neck. “That’s the thing.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “There is a body, yes?”

Lestrade nodded.

“John,” Sherlock nudged him forward with a hand on the small of his back. “The body is still down on the dock.” John raised a brow, but didn’t question it. He headed down toward the dock, the cluster of techs, and the coroner. Sherlock watched him walk away, then frowned as the familiar silhouette of Sally Donovan passed John, giving him a very hesitant glance and seriously wide berth. “What is she doing here?” Sherlock hissed.

Lestrade frowned. “She works with me.”

“She works _for_ you,” Sherlock corrected.

“And you don’t work for us at all,” Teddy offered pleasantly, shooting Sherlock a grin.

Donovan had finally reached their small circle and gave Sherlock a hesitant greeting as she cornered Lestrade. “Sir, uh. John Watson is here.”

“I’m aware.”

“Isn’t he dead?” She flashed a concerned look at Sherlock for a moment.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Not dead. Happy now?”

“Not dead? Yeah, he’s here like the resurrected Christ after a fucking dogfight. What in the hell is going on?” Sally pushed.

Sherlock scoffed. “Not dead. A fact your entire department managed to somehow get completely and incredibly wrong. Lestrade, can we please now go to the crime scene?”

“Well you haven’t changed much, Freak,” she hissed.

“Donovan,” Lestrade warned.

“Hey, Mr. Holmes,” Teddy interjected. “Did you ever tell Detective Sargent Donovan about the time you stepped in as our hostage negotiator in Manchester?”

“What?!” Donovan blurted out.

“Yeah,” Teddy continued without hesitation. “Bank robbery. They had, what was it? Five or six hostages? And it only took about two minutes on the phone and they came out and surrendered. I’ve never seen anything like it!”

Sherlock preened slightly. Lestrade chuckled, “Maybe. But two minutes on the phone with you and I’d happily march myself to the gallows.”

Sherlock’s mouth twitched in the beginning of a smile. “Speaking of gallows, I see you’ve managed to find the funding to hire a not so moronic detective constable here.”

“Would have thought you’d heard of it before me,” Greg muttered. “Donovan, I need you to head back to the Met and corral the ME. Get me all the information as it comes in.”

“Gladly,” Donovan stalked off without a parting shot.

“Why would I have heard of… Oh,” Sherlock actually smirked. “Mycroft. I really do need to remind him of his least favorite personal affliction soon. So, Detective Constable Carlson, how are you settling in? Have you sufficiently unpacked your office? All four versions of the Northwest Protocol?”

Greg shot him a look. “Why do you have four copies of that?”

Teddy shrugged innocently. “In case I need to literally throw the book at someone.”

Lestrade burst out laughing. “Teddy, I swear…”

Sherlock gave an indulgent smile. “Dull. Now. Crime scene. Lestrade, before your minions destroy all the good evidence.”

“I’ve missed this,” Teddy murmured.

“Clearly,” Sherlock hummed.

Greg shifted uncomfortably. “That’s the thing, Sherlock. We don’t have a crime scene.” Sherlock flashed a stern look. “Nope, looking at me like that won’t change the fact that this looks like a body dump.”

“How long ago?”

“We don’t know yet. Maybe a week. The ME thinks that ten days is a stretch.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “It only takes a few days for a body to surface. Why a week?”

“Uh… Looks like the body was tethered.”

“Tethered? Oh, finally! Something interesting!” Sherlock grinned.

Teddy forced a smile, “Is this what you meant about the indecent thing, Uncle Greg?”

Lestrade nodded. “Yup.”

“It’s not indecent,” Sherlock hissed. “It’s fascinating. Why? Why would you go to the trouble of murdering someone and weighing down the body? Clearly, delay of discovery. Perhaps hope that one might never find it. But then if one hopes to avoid detection, there are easier ways than binding a dead body with rope and dumping it in the Thames.”

Lestrade frowned. “I didn’t say it was rope.”

Sherlock huffed, “Of course it was rope, hemp, I’d assume, given the rate of decay. If you don’t want a body to surface you use metal or cement or duct tape even. Better yet, you eviscerate and dissever it before depositing it in the river and then there’s no body at all.”

“Charming,” Teddy grinned.

“Touché,” Greg murmured.

“So, no crime scene,” Sherlock muttered. “All you have to go on is the body itself, which from the look of things is devoid of clothing. All the good evidence will be gone, and I assume you’ve yet to identify the body at all.”

Lestrade sighed and nodded. “Body’s all we’ve got. The rope was gone before the body even surfaced.”

Sherlock made a noise of frustration in the back of his throat. “Do you have anything of use to me?” He waved off the answer that Lestrade was starting. “No, clearly not. I’ll just go see how John is getting on with the body.” Sherlock twisted to look toward the riverbank in time to see John stagger away from the dock and collapse to his knees on the ground. “John!”

 

~o~

 

That John Watson could read Sherlock Holmes like a book was a mystery even two years of distance couldn’t unravel. That John Watson listened to whatever Sherlock said and did what was asked was something much simpler. Sherlock Holmes knew how to wield a tool properly. And John Watson was a frightful instrument when utilized accurately. John could take direction, he liked to be useful, capable, and if being compliant with Sherlock’s requests managed to achieve that, so be it.

Yes, Sherlock left him to pay the cabbie. Yes, he looked like a proper tit climbing out of the back of the taxi with his arm in a sling. And yes, Sherlock steered him away from the cluster of Yarders like an unwanted puppy being put out to the back garden. But frankly, he was better served looking at the corpse than trying to be with people right now. Particularly Teddy. He wasn’t especially proud of what he’d done back at the Tobacco Dock, and he had even less of a desire to talk about it. He’d be content to see that Teddy was on his feet and relatively unscathed.

He took his time walking to the dock, taking in the terrain, the weather, the other bodies in the area, the possible sniper hides and… He winced. Stop it. London is a battlefield, but not that kind. When he looked up, Sally Donovan was heading up the hill and gave him a wary look. No, wary didn’t cover it. She gave him the look a student reserved for professors that suggest that lengthy exams are really and truly fun. He smiled accordingly and she managed to make a wide arc around him, keeping at least twenty meters between them. John was quite sure his smile didn’t express any regret at the distance.

When he reached the dock, the coroner peered up at him. “Thought you were dead.”

John glanced down his front and plucked at his shirt. “I hear dead men don’t wear plaid.”

The man laughed. “Rumors of your demise grossly exaggerated then?”

John smirked. “I thought you were good at your job.”

He snorted. “We all make mistakes.”

“Sounds like the start of a horror film.” John shifted, eying what he could see of the body. “What have you got here?”

The man shrugged. “Dead.”

“You sure?” John joked.

“This time, I’m ninety-five percent sure.”

“I’ll take those odds.” He squatted down next to the coroner. “Anything to go on?”

“Dead for a while. Hard to tell yet how long. Obvious anserine cutis and maceration, extremely little adipocere.” The coroner gestured to the area of the man’s back he was examining. “Can’t pull prints yet, way too bloated to hope for facial ID. But there’s the ligature marks on the wrists and ankles, but they look to be post mortem.” He continued to gesture as he spoke, pausing for a moment to rub his nose with the back of his hand. John grimaced. It was sloppy. And… gross. “But no self-defense injuries. Just a ligature mark around the neck, this bruise at L four-five, and significant conjunctival haemorrhages, petechia everywhere. Looks more like an asphyxiation than drowning.”

John should have known. With the ligature marks, the bruise. He should have seen it coming when the coroner flipped the body. As it stood, he felt static fill his ears as the man kept rambling. “Tattoo on the chevron, hard to make out, but we’ll get a better look at the PM. And then it looks like a pair of impressive scars. Here at the right clavicle and again here on his face. We’ll need to lift the epidermis to really see…”

John felt himself sway and immediately pushed up to his feet.

“You alright there?”

He nodded and backed away, a dense fog pushing inward, compressing his visual fields. With the static, the muted sounds of being underwater, the vertigo, John wasn’t quite sure how he managed to answer, “Fine, I’ll be back. Just… Need… Need to talk to Sherlock.”

From the vague expression on the coroner’s face, the man didn’t give a shit and he turned back to the work at hand. John staggered away, making it the ten feet off the dock and up onto the grass before dropping to his knees, bracing on his right arm and choking back the urge to vomit. He knew that face, bloated and distorted and dead as fuck. He knew the look of a garroting, but he’d actually seen that one live and in person. He knew those scars. Fuck. He panted, taking long deep breaths through his nose.

“John!”

He hummed in the back of his throat. Sherlock. Of course he’d see this. John’s constitution had never been called into question before, and it wasn’t the sight of death that had him on his knees. No. This wasn’t panic. What? What was this? He was light-headed, but he could breathe. He could breathe and he could smile. Jesus, he was laughing again. He was laughing so hard he was crying. He could feel the tears begin to roll down his cheeks as Sherlock dropped onto his haunches in front of him.

“John?” Sherlock set a cautious hand on John’s good shoulder, “What’s wrong?”

He laughed harder and shook his head, actually needing to catch his breath now.

“John.”

That hand on his shoulder was so grounding. So purposeful. Sherlock would understand. He would get this, as fucked up as the emotion was. It wasn’t panic; not this time. John managed to calm his laughter enough to ease back onto his hunkers. “Sherlock,” he giggled.

“John,” Sherlock’s face contorted in an expression of confused concern.

John laughed harder. “Don’t,” he panted. “Don’t look at me like that.”

Sherlock’s brow furrowed. “John!” he snapped.

He managed to tamp down on the worst of the chuckles and sigh, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. “Oh. Sorry. I’m sorry. It’s fine.”

“John, are you quite alright?”

John gazed at Sherlock and smiled. It was the first real smile he’d felt since he’d come back. He really felt it. The weight, the time, the tension, the burden of it all just melted away. “I’m better than alright.”

“John?”

John took a deep breath and let it out slowly, composing his face into some semblance of control. “It’s Moran, Sherlock.”

“What’s Moran?” Sherlock’s grip on his shoulder tightened.

John grinned again. “The body. It’s Moran.”

Sherlock searched John’s face. “You’re sure.”

“I’m positive.”

“Then…” Sherlock glanced toward the dock. “Then, it’s done? Someone else… How can you be sure?”

John removed Sherlock’s hand from his shoulder, squeezing it gently between his fingers. “It’s him. Absolutely, completely, assuredly, incontrovertibly, unmistakably.”

Sherlock’s mouth contorted quickly from a frown to the beginning of a smile. “You seem quite certain.”

“Never been more so in my life.”

Sherlock seemed to consider that. “So… You’re alright then?”

“I am.” John smiled gently.

“Sherlock?!”

John peered over Sherlock’s shoulder at Lestrade and Teddy, both making their way down the hill. “Don’t let Teddy over there, yeah?”

Sherlock blinked. “Of course.”

John sighed and watched as Sherlock bounded to his feet and cut the pair off before they could risk getting any closer to the body. Sherlock was spouting off fact after fact of what John thought sounded like complete nonsense. He pushed himself up to his feet and straightened his back and shoulders, taking another long drag of the air. Geosmin and ozone: it was going to rain. He glanced up at the sky before crossing to the cluster of people, interrupting Sherlock without remorse. “Lads, I think we’re about to get soaked, and I for one have had enough of being half-drowned.”

Teddy paled at the dark humor, but Greg seemed to miss it, looking up at the sky himself. “You might be right. Sherlock, will you come down to the Yard?”

Sherlock pursed his lips, “I don’t really work with you anymore.”

John rolled his eyes. “You certainly do. And that’s enough of that. Greg, we’ll be along shortly, alright?” For good measure, he clapped Teddy on the shoulder and gave him a comforting look.

“Alright.” Lestrade nodded and turned toward the coroner and what was left of his staff. “Let’s wrap this up, eh?” he shouted.

Sherlock watched them head toward the road before turning to John. “Greg?”

John started to laugh again.

 

~o~

 

Mycroft set down his teacup and pulled his phone from his breast pocket. He spared the screen a glance before answering. “Well this is certainly unexpected,” he murmured into the receiver.

“Don’t tease. You knew I’d call when it finally happened.”

“Already? Dear me, I’d rather hoped to have another week or two.”

“If you wanted more time, you should have invested in firmer rope.”

Mycroft chuckled. “We had to be sure the body was identifiable.”

“Identifiable? There is no identity to match it to!”

“But surely you’ve been able to identify him, Doctor Watson.”

“Absolutely,” John hissed.

“Then I see no reason for your issue. If that will be all?”

“It’s not all, Mycroft.”

“No?” Mycroft raised a brow. “Then please, enlighten me.”

“The protective detail on Greg Lestrade and Teddy Carlson, they need to be relieved. I can spot them, and apparently so can Teddy. There’s no way those two can do their jobs while watching out for their tails.”

“Hmm,” Mycroft considered it. “If Sherlock is to believed, they don’t do their jobs with or without my intervention.”

“Mycroft,” John warned.

“Consider them relieved. Any thing else, Doctor Watson?”

“My detail. They go too.”

“And Sherlock’s?”

“I’m sure he’ll contact you to discuss that himself. I’d hate to deprive him of that conversation.”

“And you assume I will comply without seeking courtesy in return?”

“Ask away, Mycroft. By all means. But do keep in mind that I had a mad man dig a tracking device out of the scar in my shoulder only one week ago. And I’d really like to discuss that with you as well.”

“Ah,” Mycroft hesitated.

“You see my point.”

“Evidently.”

“Good.”

“If that will be all?”

“Just about.” John paused. “To be clear, Mycroft. There is no evidence that will lead to any conclusion in this investigation.”

“None at all.”

John let out a heavy breath. “Then I think that’s all.”

“Alright then.”

“Oh, and Mycroft?”

“Yes, John?”

“You and I are going to talk about that tracker. Not right now. But we’ll be discussing it.”

“I expect nothing less.”

“And when it comes to Sherlock. Sherlock and me. Baker Street. The work. All of that. I… We will manage. And… We… Just give us some time and space, yeah?”

“Quite.”

“Ok. Good.”

“John?”

“Yeah?”

“I have every faith in you.” Mycroft disconnected the line.


	10. Part X: What You Appear To Be

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU - reversing the roles from the fall; John falls, Sherlock is left. A conclusion of sorts...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I've been dark and twisty with this. And if you're still reading it... I'm both flattered and glad. So I spent the past few days vomiting kittens and rainbows on paper to get to a nice stopping point. It's been an adventure and I've loved this fic, and I'm quite sorry that it's done. But it had to end somewhere. I can't really think of any trigger warnings to issue... I'll add any that you feel necessary. 
> 
> In this chapter: all of the sequences in italics are dreams or texts (texts are signed). And as always, thank you to Sociy for the prompt that started this and thank you to Reichy, my beta buns. As always, feedback is totally welcome.
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> **"Everyone sees what you appear to be, few experience what you really are."**  
>  ~Machiavelli, The Prince

“Sherlock, you can’t let Molly help with the PM.” John made an abortive motion to cross his arms, remembering the sling as he shifted his left shoulder.

“Why not? She’s one of the least incompetent pathologists available. We both trust her work, she knows not to disrupt important evidence, she’ll give us access to the body. John, why are you looking at me like that?”

“Sherlock.” John pinched the bridge of his nose. He was gone for less than five minutes. Five minutes to call Mycroft. And Sherlock had just… “We know it’s Moran.”

“Yes,” Sherlock drawled.

“And there’s no actual ID for Moran.”

“Yes.”

John groaned as if the discussion was paining him. “And Moran looks exactly like Moriarty.”

“Do get to the point, John.”

“Goddammit, Sherlock,” John barked. “Don’t you think that doing one autopsy on that psychopath was enough for her?”

“But it’s not…” Sherlock’s face shifted from shrewd to cognizant. “Oh.”

“Yeah, oh.” John frowned. “Call her and tell her that they don’t need her before she comes in on her day off.”

Sherlock sucked in a breath and winced. “Too late.”

“What do you mean, ‘too late?’”

“Sherlock!” Molly’s excitement carried through her voice and down the hallway.

“Shit,” John sighed.

Molly threw her arms around Sherlock’s neck and gave him a tight hug. “You look so well!”

Sherlock patted her back and cleared his throat. “Yes, hello, Molly. I… I may have…”

“I was actually so worried when I saw your number.” Molly released him and quickly tugged on the hem of her jumper. “I just. I didn’t know if it was really you. But it’s true. You’re back in London. And you’re working again!”

John actually smiled at the way Molly’s attention made Sherlock ruffle. “I am,” Sherlock’s eyes flit toward John and John raised a brow.

Molly glanced over to find John and a fresh smile broke across her face. “John!”

He gave her a warm smile, “Molly.” He held out his sling as a bit of a barrier to avoid an overly enthusiastic hug, but she hugged him nonetheless, albeit carefully.

“What happened?” she pulled back, her hands on John’s arms, studying the bruising on his face. “Your shoulder?”

“John, I’ll leave you to it here, then, shall I?” Sherlock smiled. “Sorry, Molly. I must dash. I’ve something to discuss with Detective Inspector Lestrade.”

“Sherlock,” John sighed in complaint. But Sherlock had managed to duck into an open elevator and the doors were closed before John’s voice could even reach him. John shook his head slowly and gave Molly a self-deprecating smile. “Sorry. He’s…”

“Same old Sherlock,” Molly supplied.

“Yeah,” John nodded absently. “Come on, will we grab a cuppa?”

“That’d be lovely,” Molly stuffed her hands in her pockets. “You can tell me all about how you managed to bang up that shoulder again after Mike and I worked so hard…”

“So hard to hide a tracker?” John asked, raising a brow.

Molly flushed and sputtered, “I can explain.”

He set a hand gently on her arm. “Don’t worry. I’m not upset. Came in handy, actually.”

 

~o~

 

“Sherlock, please tell me this is not about the case,” Lestrade sighed as he leaned back in his desk chair. He needed a cup of coffee, a cup of really horrible coffee, that would get his morning back on track.

Sherlock flopped into one of the interview chairs and waved a hand absently. “Garrotted, bound, dumped, assumed discovery, ideally to send a message to those in the know, but destroy all evidence. Similar to the old gangland assassinations, but not. And no, you won’t solve this one.”

Greg frowned. “I won’t… But?”

Sherlock made an indistinct noise high in his throat. “Sorry.”

“Sorry?” his brow furrowed. “What does that mean?”

“It means that as convenient as it was, I wasn’t there specifically for your case,” Sherlock snapped.

Greg blinked. Then why? Oh. Right. “You wanted to… talk?”

“There is no need to make it sound so pedestrian,” Sherlock complained.

“Sherlock.” Sherlock’s mouth twitched and he became unusually interested in the arm of the chair. Greg sighed. “Look, I don’t know what’s going on, but I can’t even try to help unless you tell me what the problem is.”

Sherlock opened his mouth, but failed to start a sentence. He took a deep breath, frowned, exhaled and tried again. “I…” his nose wrinkled for a moment. “I’m worried about John.”

“Oh.” Greg eased forward in his chair. Well. Shit. Of course Sherlock would be worried about John; the man still looked like hell. Better, but hell. “Um. What, in particular, exactly, is it that you’re worried about?”

Sherlock’s jaw clenched and he turned to stare out the window. “He isn’t… His patterns have all changed. His sleep is poor, he doesn’t eat enough, he has been neglecting his physical health, he’s lost weight, he seems distracted and… Bored. He’s bored with his life here,” Sherlock finished in a rush.

Greg ran his tongue along his lower lip as he tried to process the small tirade. “So.” He frowned thoughtfully. “He’s basically you.”

Sherlock’s head snapped around, his teeth flashing in something of a snarl. “Do not belittle this, Lestrade. He is more important to me than anything.”

Greg winced and cleared his throat. “Sorry, Sherlock. I didn’t… I’m not being flippant.” He picked up the pen on the desk and twisted it in his fingers idly. “I like John. He’s a good man. And…” He leveled a gaze at Sherlock. “He’s good for you.”

“I’m not good for him,” Sherlock muttered halfheartedly.

“Now,” Lestrade scolded. “I wouldn’t say that.” Sherlock snorted at him, but he pressed on. “I know it’s been a tough two years, for both of you, Sherlock. Anyone who half glanced at John when he got back would know that. He wants to be here. He’s glad to be here. But two years changes a man.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Sherlock hissed.

“I know you know that,” Greg said calmly. “And look at you. You’re not the same person you were. But you know where you were. Where was he? Hm?”

Sherlock’s face went blank. “I know he spent time in the desert again; he was practically covered in sand when he arrived in Manchester, tanned up to his biceps and sun bleached hair. He wasn’t working with a large team. Small, black ops. Probably with a bit of backing from Mycroft. Two man team; his sniper, Murray, was with him nearly the duration of it. Early on, maybe six months in, he was clearly captured and tortured. I can only assume he killed those responsible or I would be forced to do so myself. He was in and out of Berlin, Tel Aviv, Syria, Iraq, Pakistan, Afghanistan, Cyprus, Zurich… I cannot be certain when or for how long. And he did it so that I wouldn’t be…” Sherlock trailed off, unable to finish the thought.

Greg’s face was pale. “He told you all of that?”

Sherlock snorted. “Please.”

“Sherlock, he… You should ask him.” Sherlock blinked up at Lestrade. “It’s not enough to just know what happened, he needs to tell you. And…” Greg winced slightly. “You should probably tell him.”

Sherlock’s face grew dark, “Tell him what? That when he was willing to die for me, I nearly killed myself instead?”

“That’s not…” There was a loud knock on the door and Greg grumbled, running a hand through his hair. “What?” he barked.

Sherlock rolled his eyes as Anderson flounced into the room, a small stack of papers in his hand. “Sir?”

“What, Anderson?” Lestrade snapped.

“Donovan is back, and we were wondering about the photos, and…” he trailed off, noticing Sherlock in the chair.

“Always wondering,” Sherlock muttered. “Why don’t you try observing for once?”

“What’s he doing here?” Anderson demanded.

“Working,” Lestrade said simply, settling back in his desk chair. Somehow, he felt that Anderson was the last person Sherlock wanted in the room at that moment, and frankly, Lestrade didn’t want him there either. “Something you should be doing as well.”

“Last time he was working, he was higher than a kite and vomited in the middle of a crime scene.”

Lestrade frowned. “And yet, he still managed to solve the case, identify the culprit, and find seven pieces of evidence that you and forensics had missed. And correct me if I’m wrong, but your shoes do not count as the middle of the crime scene.”

Sherlock tried not to smirk and failed miserably. He had actually taken pleasure at that moment of gastric weakness. “And ‘he’ is actually in the room,” Sherlock added haughtily.

“Now hang on a minute,” Anderson squawked.

John cleared his throat from the doorway, an amicable smile on his face. “Am I interrupting?”

“Yes!” Anderson shouted as he turned toward the door. His face paled as he saw John standing there. “Holy… bloody… Jesus…”

Lestrade chuckled. “Not at all, Dr. Watson. Do come in.”

“But… But!” Anderson’s arms began to cycle through larger and wider gesticulations.

John made his way over to the chair Sherlock was slouching in and set his hand on the crest of the frame just behind the nape of Sherlock’s neck. “Alright?” His posture was relaxed, but Sherlock was well aware that John had placed himself between Sherlock and Anderson on purpose.

Sherlock nodded. “While I’m well used to the appalling drivel Anderson often attempts to masquerade as conversation, I can’t recall the last time I’ve seen him so lost for words.”

John snorted. Anderson managed to coordinate his attempt to pull his arms in, only to jab a finger toward John. “You are dead.”

“Don’t feel dead.” John blinked innocently at Lestrade, “Am I dead, Greg?”

“Don’t look dead to me, mate,” Lestrade answered and finally gave into the impulse to chew on the end of his pen, hiding a grin behind the clench of teeth. “Half dead, maybe.” It wouldn’t suit for him to laugh at Anderson, but damn was it tempting.

John’s smile was benign enough, but Sherlock knew ridicule when he saw it. “See Philip. I’m totally alive.”

A high squeaking sound erupted from the man as he pinned Greg with an aggravated glare. “Sir!”

Lestrade sighed. “Go help Donovan with the photos.” Anderson responded to the dismissal about as well as a cat that’d been squirt in the face with water, and Lestrade wondered if he’d heard a hiss before the man stomped out in a strop.

“I missed him,” John said flatly.

“Philip?” Sherlock snorted.

John gave Sherlock a fond smile before turning back toward Lestrade. “We need to talk.”

“Yeah, we do,” Lestrade sat forward as John settled in the empty chair next to Sherlock. “About a couple of things really. For instance, what the bloody hell am I supposed to be telling people about your miraculous resurrection?”

John sighed. He’d been meaning to discuss that with Mycroft. “I was hoping you could behave uncomfortably and make allusions to MI-6.”

“Oh please,” Sherlock huffed. “Captain John Watson’s expertise was required by the British military. This necessitated a prolonged absence that without his death would otherwise be questioned and possibly lead to revelation of what had to be a clandestine operation.”

John felt a slow smile grow across his face. “How long have you been plotting that one?”

Sherlock waved a hand absently. “It’s the truth, is it not?”

“Oh,” John felt his posture droop. Oh, Sherlock. It wasn’t even the half of it.

“I can work with that,” Lestrade interrupted. “Now, this John Doe…”

John winced. “It’s Moran.”

“What?” Greg’s eyes went wide. “That… The lump of saturated meat on the slab with the coroner is Moran?” John nodded. “Are… Are you sure?”

This time, the smile was not a friendly one. “It’s Moran. No question.”

“I can attest to his identity as well,” Sherlock added softly. “I saw him. There’s no doubt that John is correct in this.”

“Christ,” Lestrade sighed and ran a palm across his forehead. “Is there any good news in all of this? Do I have to worry that there’s a mad garrotter on the loose?”

John wet his lips. “If you manage to get fingerprints or there is, out of carelessness, useable DNA that matches a database somewhere, it won’t match Moran.” He shot a glance toward Sherlock who gave a slight nod. “It’ll match Moriarty.”

“What?!”

John set his jaw and nodded. “But I wouldn’t worry about mad garrotters.”

“John, you didn’t…” Lestrade trailed off.

“Should I be concerned that everyone thinks I’m mad enough to be choking people to death?” John let out an indignant laugh. “Not really my style. Besides, I’m quite sure I wasn’t in much shape to be out and about murdering and dumping bodies for the past few days.”

“Perhaps that is merely an acknowledgment of their previous underestimation of your capability, Doctor Watson.” All three heads swiveled to face the door with a variety of apprehensive and disgusted expressions. “My apologies for the interruption,” Mycroft managed one of his least disturbing smiles. “But that pleasant, new constable of yours suggested I might find you here.”

Sherlock was on his feet first, stalking toward Mycroft with fire in his eyes. “What are you doing here, Mycroft?” he hissed, pulling up glare at his brother from only inches away.

“I merely wished to finish a conversation I’d begun with the Detective Inspector a few days ago.” Mycroft tilted his head to indicate his desire to speak around Sherlock. “In private, if at all possible.” Greg muttered something under his breath that sound distinctly like a curse as a guilty flush appeared to creep up the back of his neck to his ears.

“What conversation,” Sherlock demanded.

Mycroft smile became vicious. “I’m sure you wouldn’t remember, brother dear. You were busy sleeping.” An undercurrent of smugness entered his voice. “Pardon, keeping vigil at your friend’s bedside.”

John shifted uncomfortably as he glanced between Mycroft and Lestrade. There was something, just on the edge of his awareness, a tickle, a hint of something. Something that he should know. Something about what… And it hit him like a ton of bricks. A ton of bricks that snuck a sedative into someone’s tea. And John was on his feet, sucking a sharp breath in through his nose. “Sherlock,” he said firmly. “Would you go make sure that Teddy isn’t looking at those pictures of Moran? I don’t want him to have to deal with that.”

Sherlock rounded on John, only to stop short at the thunderous look on his face. “I…”

“Sherlock,” John tore his eyes from Mycroft to glare at Sherlock, the corner of his mouth twitching as he sniffed. “Please shut the door behind you.” With his attention back on Mycroft, there wasn’t the barest flicker of motion until the door was closed. “Greg, how sound proof is your office?”

“Reasonably…” Lestrade gnawed on his lower lip. “Why?”

John’s right fist opened and closed rhythmically for a moment. “Because there are delicate ears in this building, and I would hate for the profanity you’re about to hear corrupt the innocent.”

“No need to be melodramatic now, John,” Mycroft smirked.

“Don’t.” John’s tone sucked the air from the room, leaving all three men in a tense stillness. His mouth drew into a tight line. “Let me get this straight. You had Molly stick a tracker in my shoulder when I was unconscious, yes? You told her it was for my own good, hm?” When Mycroft opened his mouth to answer, John cut him off. “That wasn’t a question, Mycroft.” His eyes narrowed. “You let Sherlock believe I was dead for two years. You knew I had tried to tell him. You knew I was worried about him. And you lied to me about it so that I’d stay away.”

The quick steps he took to close the distance to Mycroft had Greg on his feet from the wrong side of the desk, “John.”

Mycroft’s normally immaculate posture shrank minutely and John Watson seemed six inches taller. “And then,” John jabbed his index finger into Mycroft’s sternum. “You drugged your brother. You drugged him to keep him out of the way. Because you still don’t quite trust him. And you certainly don’t trust me. He is your brother. You massive…” He clamped his mouth shut, a tremor of rage running through his shoulders. There was no string of expletives he could muster to cover the raw feeling of hatred. John blew out a breath to calm himself. “One day, Mycroft. Not right now,” he gave a quick shake of his head. “That would be too easy. But one day, I will actually knock that smug look clean off your face.” He cocked a brow, daring Mycroft to argue with him. “And you will know that you deserved it.”

Mycroft glared down his nose, an attempt to reassert his height when Watson seemed almost eye to eye. “Why not just release that boorish, vulgar side of yourself here and now.”

John grinned. “Because then poor Greg would have to decide which one of us he wanted to arrest more. And since I’m dead and you’re half of the government…” The smile fell from John’s face and he tilted his chin up with a quick jerk. “Besides, I hear that apprehension is a much less pleasant burden than a sore jaw.” John shot Greg a polite smile over his shoulder. “Sorry, mate. I’ve got to run. Keep Sherlock out of trouble and all that.” He lifted his gaze back to Mycroft, the friendly tone not leaving his voice. “Good luck with the John Doe case in the mean time. Though I wouldn’t hold out much hope for evidence. Murderers like that tend to be so…” he ran his eyes down the line of Mycroft’s expensive suit. “Meticulous.”

It was worth it for the fraction of a second that Mycroft lost control of the muscles in his face. John side-stepped him and left the room, closing the door softly in his wake. Sherlock looked up from his spot hunched over Teddy’s shoulder, his index finger firmly planted on a photograph. “Alright?” Sherlock called over the cluster of desks.

John gave a small nod, “Yeah.”

Sherlock caught up to him as he crossed to the bank of elevators. “Would you like to tell me what that was all about?”

“You can’t deduce it?” John glanced up with a weary chuckle.

“John.”

“I’m tired, Sherlock.” He reached up to rub at the tense muscle on the left side of his neck.

Sherlock studied his face, his expression more of concern than scrutiny. “Alright,” he said softly and reached past John to punch the call button for the lift. “Home?”

John nodded gratefully.

They stepped into the elevator, and Sherlock waited for the doors to slide closed before speaking again. “Not much we can do here now. What with you identifying the body and giving Lestrade the murderer in one quick conversation.”

John looked up in alarm. “Sherlock, how?”

“I deduced it. Clearly.” Sherlock smirked.

“Brilliant,” John huffed out a laugh. “I will never get tired of you doing that.”

“You’re tired now,” Sherlock pointed out.

“Not of you,” John muttered.

 

~o~

 

John started awake, scrambling for his phone as it rang on the coffee table. He connected the call as his eyes darted around the room suspiciously. Why did he keep sleeping on the couch? It was murder on his shoulder. Thank God he’d taken the sling off at some point. And where had the pillows and blanket come from? “M’llo?” he muttered. And where was Sherlock?

“Were you joking earlier?” Lestrade asked bluntly from the other end of the line.

“Joking?” John scrubbed a hand over his face. “About what?” He glanced at his watch; it was only half seven. He really must have been tired.

“About punching Mycroft Holmes in the face.”

“You do realize that he has likely tapped your phone,” John snorted.

“Well aware.” Lestrade was all flat answers.

“Then no.” John smiled. “I was in no way joking. I plan to give him a proper wallop. Why do you ask?”

“Can I watch?”

John burst out laughing, a proper belly laugh that made his ribs ache. “I take it you were not civil when I left.”

“That would be an understatement.” Greg muttered. “In my defense, he stopped being civil first.”

“I believe it.”

“Look. I need a favor,” Lestrade started.

“That sounds ominous.”

“I need you to talk to Teddy. He’s a bit shaken. With the whole Moran thing. And with the… With whatever happened at the Dock.”

Ah. Right. John sighed. “How bad is it?”

“He’s just worried. Kind of paranoia. He was convinced we had a security detail, and now…”

“Now you don’t,” John finished. “Because I told Mycroft that you couldn’t do your jobs and they had to go.”

“Ah,” Greg cleared his throat. “So he wasn’t paranoid. I… thought as much.”

“No,” John drawled. There was a peaceable silence that stretched across the line. “So, he needs…”

“A friend, I think. He’s here in London permanently. He’s going to be at the Met, which will be a blessing for me, since there’ll be at least one other person in CID that Sherlock doesn’t hate.”

“There are plenty of people that Sherlock doesn’t hate,” John mused.

“That’s because he hasn’t met them yet,” Greg said flatly.

John snorted. “Ok, how about I take him out for a pint tomorrow? Normal lad stuff.”

“You’re going for normal? That’s a stretch, even for you.”

“Oi!” John chuckled.

“I didn’t really…” Greg paused and seemed to collect himself. “Are you doing alright yourself?”

The sound of keys scraping in the lock had John’s attention for a moment. “Mmmn,” he nodded absently. “I’m probably better than I should be.”

“You know that if, if things get, if you want to talk, I’m around.”

John smiled at the halting offer as Sherlock bounded up the stairs. “Thanks, Greg. I do owe you a proper chat that can only be done with alcohol of some sort.”

“That wasn’t what I was saying.”

“I know.” John smelled the food that Sherlock was carrying before he reached the landing and his stomach growled in response. “Text me Teddy’s number and I’ll meet up with him tomorrow.”

“Thanks, John. I… I’ve missed having you around.”

“I’ve missed being home.”

“John, maybe. Maybe before you and I catch up, you should… Talk… To Sherlock. I mean, it’s none of my business. But he’s… The two years were rough for him too and he’s not quite…”

John listened to the unspoken words in the silence. “Right,” he sighed.

“Right,” Greg muttered. “Paperwork coming out my ears…”

“Right.” John snorted. “We’ll talk later.”

Sherlock set the bag of food on the kitchen worktop and raised a brow in question as John ended the call. “Lestrade,” John answered.

“Oh?” Sherlock turned his back to unpack the dinner.

“He wants me to talk to Teddy,” John said. Sherlock startled and turned to find John just inches from his left shoulder. He blinked at him. “What?” John furrowed his brow.

“You know you don’t make noise when you move anymore?” Sherlock’s face twitched as though he hadn’t intended to say anything.

A slow smile stretched across John’s face. “I didn’t realize.”

“Like a ruddy cat,” Sherlock muttered, turning back to the food.

John huffed out a laugh. “Learned from the best.”

“Hm?”

“I said,” John crossed his arms and leaned his hip against the worktop. “How do you like it?”

“No you didn’t,” Sherlock smiled tentatively.

“No, I didn’t,” John agreed.

 

~o~

 

John tucked his mobile back into his jacket pocket and settled in the chair as he watched Teddy weave back to the table, carrying their round. He was there as a favor to Lestrade, something of a payback for ruining their investigation into the John Doe vic by casually identifying the body, the murderer, and walking away. Plus, he did feel he owed the lad something. Sherlock had promised to run interference between the DI and his currently supremely aggrieved, older brother. He was hashing out the details or something to that effect, and John was here, having a pint with Teddy, because the kid needed to chat. More than a chat, he really needed a friend.

John gave him a fleeting smile and took a drag from the beer. It settled his nerves slightly. “So, Teddy, London, eh?”

Teddy nodded. “London.”

“London,” John sighed.

They both took a sip in silence. “Was that… Are you sure that’s him?” Teddy finally asked.

John nodded. “No mistake.”

Teddy nodded. “Is it bad that I’m relieved?”

John raised a brow. “If it is, then I belong in prison.”

“You’re relieved?”

“Of course,” John said plainly. “I feel like I can breathe for the first time in two years. It’s fucking freeing.”

“And, whomever did that… Killed him… You’re not worried?” Teddy flinched as he couldn’t quite voice the fear in his head.

“Nope.” John shook his head. “I’m not going to lose sleep over that.”

Teddy took a quick sip of his beer for courage. “You didn’t kill him, did you?”

“If only.” John snorted. “Teddy, if I’d been the one to kill him, not only would I have let you watch, but there’d be no body to identify after.”

Teddy’s mouth twitched in a grimace before ghosting into a smile for a minute. “You know who did it, don’t you.”

Not a question; John’s head tilted as he studied Teddy carefully. “Why would you think that?”

Teddy worried his lip then clenched his jaw, affecting an older air. “My security detail is gone. So is Uncle Greg’s. I didn’t see one on you either. And you’re not worried.”

John gave a crisp nod. “You’re sharp, I’ll give you that.”

“That’s not really an answer.”

John smiled around his pint glass and took a swig. “No?”

Teddy chuckled and shook his head.

“You’re getting the hang of this, kid.”

His expression turned serious again. “Is this normal? Is this what life is really like for you?”

“Is what normal?” John asked carefully.

“I’m not sleeping well,” Teddy said truthfully. “I’m sure that’ll improve now, but I can’t keep on in Uncle Greg’s guest room. I mean, I’ll have to get my own flat, make a life down here if I’m gonna stay. But I can’t say that going outside is easy yet.”

John sighed heavily. “Teddy, that… is normal. A few rounds with the trick cyclists wouldn’t hurt, but it’ll get better. You’ll find sleep, and probably soon with this being put to rest. You’ve just moved to London, you’ll find a flat eventually, but there’s no rush. And, pot – kettle, you need a few good friends and this will all blow over. That’s normal. Being around Sherlock, nothing is normal. Ordinary doesn’t exist. But it’s not boring.”

Teddy gave a slow nod. “So, I’m normal, none of you are?”

John grinned. “I’m crazier than a bag of loons.”

“Uncle Greg said you were the sane one,” Teddy muttered.

John’s grin grew broad and pleased. “Oh, I am.”

Teddy laughed, properly laughed. “Lord, help us.”

“He only says it because I’m not a ManU fan.” John’s eyes flicked to the door and he smiled. “You aren’t allergic to cats are you?”

“What? No. But… What?”

“Listen, Teddy, I can’t stay much longer. I’ve to go corral Sherlock, protect the commonwealth from his antics and all that.”

“I’m happy to hand that mantel back to you,” Teddy tipped his pint and John did the same, clinking their glasses together.

“But uh,” John suppressed a smile. “I think you ought to stay out for a bit.”

Teddy furrowed his brow. “I’m pretty sure drinking alone is frowned upon.”

“Not alone,” John gave a wave and quickly finished his pint.

“John, hi!”

John pushed out of his chair and gave a fond smile. “Molly, thanks for coming. Sorry about yesterday.”

They exchanged an awkward one-armed hug to keep from risking John’s shoulder to the movement. “No no, I… appreciated the warning.”

He pulled out the chair he’d recently vacated and gestured for her to sit. “Molly, have you met Teddy Carlson yet? He’s Greg’s nephew. Going to be working in the Met for the foreseeable future.”

“Oh, no. Hi! Teddy!” Molly held out her hand. “Sherlock was talking about you earlier.”

Teddy blushed and shook her hand. “Hi, Dr. Hooper.”

“Pish tosh,” she waved a hand absently. “It’s Molly.”

“Molly,” Teddy repeated, his ears turning red.

John grinned. “Molly, what’ll ya have?”

“Uh, anything?” she said happily.

“Teddy, same?” John gestured to the nearly empty pint.

“Please,” he tore his eyes away from Molly’s perky expression.

John gave him a knowing smirk and headed for the bar. A few minutes later, he set the two pints on the table between the pair and gave a nod and a not completely genuine wince. “I’ve to pop off and see to a few things. You two ok if I abandon you?”

“But John, I just got here,” Molly complained.

“I know; I’m terrible,” he lied. John stuffed his hands into his jacket. “But I’m sure Teddy here will keep you company. Plus, it’s probably the first and only time you’ll have only non-work things to chat about now that he’s with CID.”

“Oh,” Molly gave Teddy a shy but pleased smile. “Good point.”

“We’ll grab a coffee soon, yeah?”

“Sure,” Molly gave John a quick glance before turning back towards her tablemate.

“Enjoy yourselves.” John couldn’t keep the smile from his face as he made his way out of the pub.

 

~o~

 

Greg Lestrade was at the end of his tether. It had taken four days to convince his boss that there was nowhere to go on the John Doe, or rather, the Moran case. It had taken another seven days to convince the more enthusiastic in his department that they had to let the dead thing lie. Teddy was helpful enough, but Donovan was like a pit bull on it. Sunk her teeth in and was desperate to find a crime scene to go with the murder. Sherlock had been heavy with the implications that it would never happen. And Lestrade wasn’t an idiot.

He could piece things together well enough on his own to know what happened. And frankly, it made his blood boil. He knew when it happened, because he’d seen it on John Watson’s face the next day. Behind the fatigue and the pain and the fresh bruises. Fresh sodding bruises. And he’d believed Mycroft when he’d asked… Fucking Holmeses. Throw in nearly a week of paperwork and Greg Lestrade was fit to be tied. He needed a case. The thought made him groan out loud. “I am actually turning into him,” he muttered and pushed back from his desk.

With a grumble and an angry glare at the stacks of files building on his desk, Lestrade stuffed his arms into his coat and stomped out of the office. Home, he thought. Go home. Have a beer. Have a sleep. Teddy’s been gone for hours. Just… Home.

He pushed through the doors onto the footpath and crammed his hands into his pockets, hunching his shoulders against the cold. He heaved a sigh, his breath making a small puff in the dark, minimally satisfying in that it sort of felt like smoking, and he started down the road toward home. Less than a block from the Met, a steady, cold rain began to fall and Greg grumbled, flipped up his collar and kept walking.

He didn’t miss it when a black sedan pulled up along side, or when the window rolled down. “Detective Inspector?”

“Piss off,” Greg hissed and kept walking.

“Please, Gregory, get in the car.”

He didn’t bother turning to look. “I’m busy.”

“You’ll catch your death,” Mycroft purred.

“Not from the rain,” he muttered.

“Have you always been this stubborn?”

Greg pretended not to notice the car pull over a few feet in front of him. He tried not to care when the front door opened. But with one very large, very armed, potentially SAS body guard blocking his path, Lestrade had to admit that he was both wholly aware and very seriously minded. With an aggravated huff, he ducked into the car and dropped onto the seat. And before the car could pull into traffic, Greg shook the water from his hair and coat onto the nice leather seats.

“That was childish, Gregory.” The expression on Mycroft Holmes face was distinctively displeased.

Greg grinned, “Well, I’m clearly dealing with a child.”

Mycroft’s brow quirked. “I was not the one insisting on floundering home in the rain.”

“Jesus,” Greg sighed. “You are a right piece of work.”

“Quite,” Mycroft twisted the handle of the umbrella in the palm of his hand.

“What do you want?”

Mycroft tilted his head. “I simply hoped to inquire after the closure of your most recent investigation. It is quite finished, is it not?”

Greg rolled his eyes. “You mean, have I ignored the fact that I know who the victim is and managed to shunt it into cold case? Then yes, yes it’s finished.”

“That’s good.” His chin tilted upward as he gazed out the window.

Lestrade frowned. “No, no it isn’t.” Mycroft smirked and Lestrade felt the well-worn grip he had on his irritation snap. “Don’t you sit there and smirk at me. You fucking killed that man, dumped it in my lap and left me with my hands tied!”

Mycroft smoothed his thumb across an imaginary crease in his trousers. “You were free to investigate as you pleased, Detective Inspector.”

“Don’t give me that! It would have been a waste of time and manpower, because I sincerely doubt anyone would be able to find evidence of what you did.”

“Which is why you wisely chose not to waste your limited resources,” Mycroft said smoothly.

Greg ran his fingers through his hair with a growl. “You are an insufferable git,” he muttered at his feet.

“How is your new constable working out?” Mycroft asked idly.

Lestrade raised his eyes to glare. “Don’t you dare.”

“I’m simply asking.” Mycroft drummed the fingers of his free hand against his thigh. It was the closest to fidgeting that Lestrade had ever seen from him. “I hear he’s making friends quickly in the city. Out for a romantic dinner this evening?”

“I don’t even care how you know about that, but if you interfere with Teddy in anyway, so help me, Mycroft…”

“Gregory,” Mycroft’s voice was scolding. “I don’t interfere.”

Greg blinked. He snorted, blinked again, and burst out laughing. He laughed so hard that he was forced to wrap an arm around his stomach and double up over his knees. He laughed so hard he didn’t notice when the car rolled to a stop in front of his flat. And when he finally managed to stop laughing, there were tears in his eyes and he had to take a few steadying breaths.

“That was not intended to be amusing,” Mycroft grumbled.

That set Greg off in another round of chuckles. “Mycroft. You are ridiculous.”

Mycroft scowled. “Said the man who would refuse a ride and shelter from the rain.” Lestrade heaved a sigh and studied Mycroft for a moment. “What are you doing?”

“I’m observing,” Greg smirked.

Mycroft’s eyebrow shot up.

“Teddy is off limits,” Greg said seriously as he opened the car door. “I take my job seriously. So please keep your meddling out of the Met, yeah?” He eased himself out of the car, pleased to find that the rain had, probably temporarily, stopped. “And, Mycroft,” he stooped to meet the man’s eyes. “If you want to give someone a ride, you really do need to learn how to ask properly.”

Then Greg Lestrade shut the door in the face of Mycroft’s flustered expression. And he smiled to himself as he made his way into the flat.

 

~o~

 

John shifted the bag of groceries back into his right hand with a wince. His injuries were outwardly healing, but he knew that months of physio would be necessary to fully restore the strength and range of motion to his shoulder. At least his ribs were better. He stuffed the keys into his pocket and closed the door. “Sherlock?” he called, trudging up the stairs.

“In here,” Sherlock called. John set the bag on the worktop and wondered briefly what ‘here’ meant. “Bedroom,” Sherlock added.

“Bloody mind-reader,” John muttered, shedding his coat and scarf before heading towards Sherlock’s room. John furrowed his brow as he found Sherlock sitting cross-legged on the bed, still in his pajamas and dressing gown, fingers steepled beneath his chin. “Did you even get dressed today?”

“Immaterial.” Sherlock waved a hand. “What did the doctors say?”

John raised an eyebrow. “He asked as if he didn’t already know.”

Sherlock scoffed. “It’s not a trick, John.”

“You haven’t even tried.”

“You’re the one that insists it’s ‘showing off,’” Sherlock complained.

John’s mouth quirked. “Of course it’s showing off. You’re a show-off. That’s what you do.”

Sherlock’s smirk was entirely appreciative of perfect recount of a past conversation. “Fine,” he threw his body off of the bed in a leonine movement and closed the distance between himself and John. John knew better than to be startled. He simply tilted his chin up to meet Sherlock’s penetrating gaze and kept his stance as casual as possible. “Hm,” Sherlock hummed as he squinted at John, slowly circling him before returning to stare down at his face.

John raised a single brow again. “So?”

There was an amused twitch to Sherlock’s face before he launched into a monologue. “You saw the orthopaedic surgeon today, who has decided to no longer keep you in that ridiculous sling, as the damage to your tendons is well enough healed in its own right and you’re only using over the counter medication as an anti-inflammatory. The chest x-rays showed well healing fractures that are no longer at risk of refracture, but you’ve been advised to continue to rehabilitate your lungs, which is frankly ridiculous. You no longer feel out of breath when you climb the stairs and the range of motion in your torso is no longer hindered by muscular spasm or pain. You spent more than an hour with the physiotherapist, however, who has increased the number and difficulty of exercises for your shoulder, which has fatigued and tightened the entire left side of your neck, arm and back. It is the tightness not pain that has brought about a slight limp, though you’ve remained tremor free. She clearly has suggested it will benefit you in the long run in spite of the current exhaustion, and you agree or you wouldn’t have participated, because you are what the experts like to call a, ‘stubborn bastard.’ And you choose to remain so regardless of how attractive your physiotherapist may be. You are roughly two months from a completely clean bill of health, but everyone is pleased with your ability to not be an idiot. However, I must insist you cease attempting to become fully ambidextrous, your right hand is not capable of script, even in the short hand, and it has become insufferable.”

“Amazing.”

“And…” Sherlock paused, tilting his head and tucking his lips back in a brief and uncharacteristic hesitation.

“And?” John stared at him evenly.

“And you… You’re now feeling comfortable enough… You want to talk about… _it_ ,” Sherlock finished with more of a question than statement. Question of approval not accuracy.

The smallest flicker of a smile passed across John’s face. “Not bad.”

Sherlock’s entire body managed to scowl when his mobile took that moment to ring shrilly. His brows knit together as he looked back at John. John shrugged, “Answer it, I’ll just put the shopping away and make us some tea.”

John could feel Sherlock follow his progress toward kitchen with his eyes, even as he picked up the phone. “What?” he hissed.

“Sherlock, be nice,” John called from the kitchen. He filled the kettle and clicked it on, busying himself with the mugs and tea bags as Sherlock carried on a short conversation in a hushed voice. The shopping put away and kettle boiled, and John made two cups of tea, adding a ridiculous amount of sugar in Sherlock’s and just a splash of milk in his own. Satisfied, he blew across surface of his tea to cool it before taking a sip. It was pleasant.

“Put that down, John. We have to go.”

John nearly spilled the tea down the front of his jumper. “Sorry, what?”

“A case, John. Do keep up.” Sherlock was pulling his Belstaff on before John even had the chance to notice he’d dressed.

“Like a ruddy cat indeed,” John muttered, replacing his mug and collecting his coat and scarf. “Do I need…?” John turned to find Sherlock holding his Browning out. He frowned slightly and tucked it into his waistband at the small of his back.

“Probably not,” Sherlock twisted his scarf into place with a grin. “But there’s no harm in preparedness.” John sighed and nodded, hurrying to follow Sherlock down the stairs and into the back of a waiting taxi. He settled in the seat and shifted his shoulders back and forth. “John?”

John turned his attention from the passing shops. “Hm?”

“Was I correct?” Sherlock asked hesitantly.

“While the answer is generally a resounding yes, you’ll have to be more specific,” John answered wryly.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Was I correct about… That you and I might have a discussion about…” his fingers twitched as if he was trying to twist together the proper sentence.

John smiled. “Yeah, Sherlock. You were.” He held up a hand quickly. “No, not here in the cab, berk.”

Sherlock frowned.

“Maybe after we see what Lestrade has there for us, yeah?” John offered. “And when I’ve eaten dinner too.”

Sherlock scoffed. “Transport.”

“Git.”

Sherlock heaved a sigh.

“Sherlock,” John said softly, waiting for the man’s full attention again. “I’m not going anywhere, yeah?”

“I know, John.”

 

~o~

 

“Wife said he came home from work on Friday complaining of a headache. He spent the weekend laid up with the flu. He was ok on Monday, headed into work, then…” Lestrade gestured at the body on the ground. “Boss said he went a bit mental and then started fitting. Fell right off the balcony.”

“Went a bit mental?” Sherlock raised a brow. “Is that a medical term?”

John smothered a chuckle. Lestrade huffed in annoyance. “He was acting funny, aggressive, staggering around, slurring his words, repeating the same questions, sounded drunk to everyone around him.”

“And you think… what? What is the leading theory from the Met’s finest?” Sherlock squatted by the body and peered up at Lestrade.

Greg shrugged. “Got me.”

“Clearly he was murdered; poisoned,” Anderson pitched in. Sherlock shot him daggers. “Slurred speech? Abnormal behavior? Amnesia? Someone drugged him and helped him over the balcony.”

“In front of an office full of witnesses?” Sherlock raised a brow. He was beginning to sound like Lestrade. Perish the thought. How did he work with this incompetence?

“It could happen.” Anderson crossed his arms in a fit of pique.

“I weep for the possibility,” Sherlock wrinkled his nose and attended to the body. “John, what does this look like to you?”

John crossed to Sherlock’s side, his thigh nearly brushing against Sherlock’s shoulder. “The whole thing? Or just that speck you’re examining now?”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes in something of a glare. “You’re still a doctor, are you not? I would appreciate your opinion.”

John tilted his head and wet his lips. “Poisoned, yes. Murdered, no.”

Sherlock snorted. “As ever, your economic use of time and words is both laudable and circumspect. Care to expand upon your explanation at all?”

“Dead?” John added with humor.

Sherlock grinned, “Yes.”

Lestrade sighed in frustration.

“Look, I can see it from here, yeah?” John took a hand out of his pocket and regretted leaving his gloves back at the flat. “He’s what? Late fifties? Just started the job last week? Smoker, previous MI, touch of COPD? He’s a walking poster-boy for what the NHS wants to prevent in chronic diseases. Recent cold snap. All the old furnaces get turned on.”

“Oh,” Sherlock said softly, almost absently.

John continued. “He’s new, he’s vulnerable, his desk is probably right under a vent that has a leak in it somewhere. It’s acute poisoning. But it can take days to fully set in. You see it once, you know it. I mean, look at his skin. Or rather, the bits that are still together…”

“Cherry red,” Sherlock finished, pushing himself back to standing. “Carbon monoxide poisoning.”

John gave a small nod. “Probably.”

Lestrade stared at John for a moment, weighing his words. “So… Not murder.”

Sherlock made an impatient noise in the back of his throat. “Really, Lestrade. You ought to employ some people that rather have more common sense than that of a kumquat. I expect better from you.”

John felt the wry half-smile twist his mouth as he watched the Belstaff fan out behind Sherlock as he stalked through the empty carpark. “And to think I missed this.” Lestrade heaved a long-suffering sigh, “I did. God help me.”

“Come along, John,” Sherlock called without pausing in his stride.

John shot Greg a self-deprecating smile, “God help us all, mate.” And he trotted off after the man. It took John a few moments and a brisk pace to catch up to Sherlock’s side, but once there, they fell in stride and John no longer felt as though he was straining to keep up. He sighed as he crammed his hands into the pockets of his jacket. “Well that was a bit of a waste.”

Sherlock glanced down at him with a smirk, “Oh, I wouldn’t say that.”

“No?” John raised his brows. “Not even a murder. I wouldn’t have thought that even made a three.”

Sherlock scoffed. “Two at best.”

“But not a waste?”

Sherlock visibly tried to keep from grinning; it was a losing battle. “It’s always worthwhile to see you correct a floundering investigation with a simple observation. The expressions of humiliation and disgust in equal parts are really quite fascinating to watch.”

John chuckled. “That sounded an awful lot like flattery.”

“That’s because you are not a complete idiot.”

John felt his cheeks heat as he ducked his head.

“I suppose saving Lestrade from the two week long murder investigation and subsequent publicity debacle that would ensue could be counted in favor. He really is terrible in front of the press.”

John huffed out a laugh. “Not everyone can have your charming disposition.”

“Clearly.”

They walked side by side in an amiable silence, pausing at the next intersection. John felt his nose twitch at the smell of roasting garlic wafting from a nearby take-away. “Dinner?” he asked cautiously.

Sherlock shot him a sidelong glance, a slow smirk spreading up the side of his face. “Starving.”


End file.
